


Between The Men, A Horse

by RomanyWalker, WeasleyWench, wench_fics (WeasleyWench)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gift!Fic, M/M, happy/hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 14:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18994642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/WeasleyWench, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/wench_fics
Summary: Harry, playboy, and general idiot, blows a magical horn and finds himself in a bit of a situation, one that only Draco Malfoy can help him get out of. This was written a LONG time ago. Maybe back in 2009... not quite sure. It's not as tightly written as new pieces. But hope you enjoy it anyway! Written for the hd500 on livejournal.





	Between The Men, A Horse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lomonaaeren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/gifts).



****

  


**Between The Men, A Horse**

There were people all over, sweat and perfume mingling like smoke: arousal and tension filled Harry’s lungs, shot through the rest of his body and stuck. The bloke with him slipped his hand into the opening of Harry’s toga, making his way into Harry’s pants and around his bits. Harry felt like he was being weighed and measured. It wasn’t a problem; in fact, he encouraged his partners to become familiar with his body before they jumped in the sack – just not in front of loads of other people, people he worked with, people his children knew. They didn’t need to hear any more rumours about their father than already circulated like something in The Prophet: it had to be true if it was in the press. This lot would take any step out of the bounds of propriety and turn it into ritual suicide and virgin sacrifice, if he wasn’t careful. This bloke at least was older than the last. Harry had actually felt quite ashamed of himself for _that_ little escapade. It had been hard to resist the excitement of a boy becoming a man – a birthday celebration he was sure the lad never forgot. It was also the last time Harry had dared look at any man who wasn’t at least twenty-five years old, no matter how good-looking or persuasive they were: daddy fetishes weren’t his bag.

The hold on his bits shifted and became a demand. 

“Let’s get a drink first. We can take it with us.” He smiled and pulled out the horn he’d bought from the second-hand shop earlier that day, showing where he’d corked what used to be the mouth piece. “Might as well act like barbarians with our clothes _on_.” 

“I’ll get some wine.” The man smiled.

“Alright. I’ll be in the garden.”

Harry melted through the crowd of bodies all dying to do the same thing he was about to do. They’d spent the evening seducing each other with a stray hand, a few words that no-one else should ever hear and touches when the annoying magical lamps weren’t on them like a spotlight, just waiting for Harry to do something worth taking a photo of to post on the front of a tabloid – or worse, a reputable news source with a story that didn’t match reality. He headed outside, to the terrace overlooking the garden maze: rose bushes, rhododendrons, and sundry bits of greenery had been tamed into wild walls and turns. At the centre, a stone paradise awaited whoever made it that far. It was well-known to Harry. This particular house had been host to many fancy dress parties for bachelors and bachelorettes with certain tastes. The last time was still fresh in his mind, a lazy shag that he’d wanked over for days before spoiling it with another random bloke. Magic hadn’t been an option that night; it was this time. People largely accepted that there were those who could use magic in various ways. Sometimes using his _talents_ \- not the ones they were after – was off-putting. Harry understood: some people liked fists up their arses. To each their own was his view. 

The night air was pleasant and sharp compared to the heat inside. So many bodies gathered together, gyrating, glistening, built up energy. Harry could feel it everywhere, a fire so hot it ran through his blood and promised deliverance one way or another. He exhaled. All day it had been growing, the steady feeling that something was going to happen.

Harry turned at approaching footsteps. “What’s your name again?”

“Michael. We actually work together.”

“Oh, do we?” He held the horn out. “Might as well fill it up.”

The wine flowed into the aged crescent. It looked like bone, but Harry was sure that was craftsmanship. “Mm. Hard to tell in the costume, I know, but I’m in the back on the fourth floor, by the filing room.” 

Colour me surprised, Harry thought. “Been looking forward to this, then?”

“You could say that.” Michael smiled.

“Let’s not waste too much time.” 

Harry took the horn-chalice, thinking about blood and bones, before he drank deeply. Drops of scarlet rolled over his thumb and across the top of his hand, down his lip and chin. Michael caught the line of fading red at Harry’s throat and dragged his tongue up, until their mouths connected; everything he’d had to drink had gone from his stomach directly to his brain, drowning it. He laughed and pulled the bottle from Michael, stopping only to offer some to his companion. Michael shook his head. For a while, his world danced in colour and sound, voices becoming like vivid fireworks displays. It was like swimming through thoughts and feelings, something Harry wasn’t prepared for when his senses took over and led him. He took Michael’s hand and pulled him down a winding granite staircase, the light of the full moon guiding them to the grass at the entrance of the maze. 

Harry’s skin itched. He dropped the horn when scratching became an effort. The cork - _damn it_ \- should’ve been firmly in place. It was sitting innocently in the middle of the maze entrance like a child pretending to have not done anything wrong.

He scoffed and looked down. No-one was around for miles apart from the people inside the great estate. Blowing it wouldn’t offend anyone. He bent down and took hold of it.

“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Michael asked.

‘Brilliant’ wouldn’t have been Harry’s word for it. It reminded him of something out of a museum, some archaeological find from primitive civilisation when bones were used for just about anything. Faint traces of carvings covered the surface in intricate patterns, he noticed for the first time. _So maybe it **is** a bit brilliant._ ‘Beautiful’ might have been a better word, but Harry’s vocabulary lacked any spectacular adjectives. There wasn’t any energy about it that he could sense, at least not magical energy, but there was something _special_ about it; that much he could feel in his bones. He wanted it.

Harry reached for it, running his fingers over the raised texture. Iridescent shades travelled the length of the bone and disappeared. Harry frowned, unsure if he’d actually seen the colours. The bits of dirt and other stains _looked_ wrong. It was like the thing didn’t even belong in the same space with Harry, let alone in his hands. Not even the moon touched it. Harry looked closer at the carvings: men on horseback surged forward into the unknown. It was mesmerisingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time; like an object in a half-waking dream, which the conscious mind rejected as unknown but the dreaming mind insisted was remembered. It fitted into his hand as if it had been made for him - and him alone - to hold. 

Harry knew he was supposed to blow the thing; he felt it as naturally as he knew he had to breathe, though he couldn’t have explained why. Harry’s eyes widened and he caressed the horn, his heart beating faster. It was like he could feel himself on horseback, free and far from the failures in his life. Being there would take him away from it all, the rows with Ginny over the kids, rows with the kids over his shortcomings as a father, rows with lovers who wanted more than he could give or wanted to give - he felt like he belonged in that scene, like he should be there with them, chasing that stag, killing it, collecting the trophy for a thrilling chase.

Harry hefted the horn and placed it against his lips. No sound came out when he blew; instead, it brought silence, an eerie stillness. Even the party seemed to have stopped. Something was terribly wrong. It was like every nightmare about magic – the ones he’d had when his parents had read him stories as a child – was true. 

Darkness descended like a wet cloak, and the unmistakable sound of hooves beating the ground, like the world had a heartbeat, thundered in Harry’s ears. He jerked, trying to see something – anything. There was nothing, just the sounds of horses, the baying of hounds, and heavy breaths from hollow nostrils. A chill colder than ice pierced him. _This isn’t happening. Can’t be happening._ He backed away from whatever it was that waited for him, sightless, trying to remember what had been around him; the inside of his head felt like fog had plummeted in, the alcohol finally heating enough to leave his brain alone. He tripped and fell backwards, hitting the ground hard; his foot caught on a root he didn’t remember being there.

The darkness lifted for a moment. _A dream, I'm dreaming. I have to be._ Harry pushed against the grass, which now felt like had taken the beating of rain all day, heels slipping in the muck. He clawed at the ground, only grasping sodden clumps of grass. Everything slipped away; _he_ was slipping away. With nowhere to go, he dropped onto his elbows, into coarse mud. Sinking, sinking... he collapsed against the ground.

An indistinct figure, a presence he could feel more than see, wrathful and fearsome, hovered before him. Sounds and images flooded his mind as the figure spoke - at least, he thought it was speaking. None of the words sounded familiar; they felt it, though, and Harry _knew_ that he’d done a very bad thing.

Pain tore him apart like he’d been struck by lightning. The shock stole his breath; it felt like his anchor to the world, to magic, to life, no longer existed. He plunged into absolute, smothering darkness.

***

The air smelled thick with fresh grass, was cool with each breath. Everything else seemed rather dull in comparison. There wasn’t much around: trees, more grass, mud. Birds argued above. At least there was a stream nearby; the smell was delightful. Drawn closer, it leaned its face forward and gulped from the crisp flow. The water tasted fantastic, a perfect blend of...

The world warped. Colours flashed, and smells crashed all round. It felt like spring bursting into life then receding. There, the air felt heavier, tighter, than it had before. Heavy pounding began in its chest. It shied a few steps, muscles tensing all over. Clarity followed closely behind blaring, squealing, and a blunt crunch. Sharp angles had replaced the softness of the grassland, and there were obstacles all around. It fought to get away, rising up and swinging its forelegs. Pain shocked its legs on landing. Things around mostly seemed small, and it felt powerful – powerful enough to knock any of them over if they tried to get too close. There was no grass, no trees, just tall, flat rocks with what looked like sheets of ice Roning their faces, glittering in the sunlight. Noise rose everywhere, and animals standing on two legs grabbed their young and pulled them away. A few steps forward and it heard rhythmic knocking against the ground; more noise closing in. More of the animals ran away. Their fear sat on its tongue and tasted sour; its own fear tasted strong. The stream would’ve been nice just then.

Some of the animals tried to come closer, foreheads wrinkled and eyebrows high, the sounds they made lower than the ones running around madly. One of the animals closing in cried out a challenge. Two steps back, and it tried to get away, too.

There was nowhere. There was nothing.

It reared back again, giving its own war-cry, and dashed through the gathering throng like it’d been set on fire. It burned to get away – these things were unfamiliar and loud. Every time its hooves hit the ground, it hurt, but the beast didn’t stop. It just wanted to be safe again, somewhere that wasn’t full of so many things.

Then everything shifted again and all round was grass, trees, and the scent of the stream.

The need to get away subsided. Its heartbeat slowly returned to normal. There weren’t any loud, jarring sounds or crazy animals running at it; just the serene flow of crystalline water over rocks.

***

Strange sounds sprang up all round. The sudden change from quiet to growing life between every branch wasn’t right. It wasn’t familiar. It plunged its nose into the cold water, unable to... understand. Backing away, it looked round. Earth, grass, trees, beautiful animals were all about. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but it didn’t feel normal, either. Sometimes its legs and body felt too long, too large. Even its face felt wrong, and movement awkward.

Its heart pounded, and it turned to gallop away. 

The mushy grass gave way and became hard, became clomping on the same hard surface it had touched when it saw the rocks with eyes. Noises exploded all around. Sudden bursts of movement flashed then blurred to just out of sight. All round, it was too loud. The two-legged creatures were closing in like a noose before the hanging.

One of the two-legged creatures ran forward, with a long twisted thing that looked like a dead snake. Another stood with something in its hand, aiming directly at it. Creatures closed in, surrounding it. Side to side, it jerked its head, and couldn’t see all of them. It leaned on its forelegs and kicked back. Whatever was behind it gave way; debris flew everywhere, scattering over the animals. Some of them tried to protect their eyes, others ducked. There was a loud click. It raked the hard ground with its hoof and snorted. That thing had missed, but not next time. It needed to get away; that thing could kill it. It had to get away. 

So it ran. It charged through animals, weird things that clanked when it hit them. It ran until there was only grass and the familiar scent of water urging it closer. Then it ran some more until it found the serenity and fullness he’d really wanted.

***

Days passed in a blur. It moved from the sharp, angular world to the deliciously fragrant pastures that felt oddly heavier. The way things kept changing, it had no idea where it was going any more. Nothing indicated coming change, but it happened – often enough that the thinner, watery world that was home to those two-legged animals smelled, felt, and looked different. The thicker air and sweet-smelling water-world was different, and there weren’t any of those two-legged creatures. Sometimes it felt like it was running in circles, the way everything changed so much. Time dragged on. When it wanted food, the quiet, serene world shifted, became sharper and the air lighter. When the surroundings shifted, others like it roamed a great pasture. It followed them for a while, just far enough away not to intrude. It took ages for them to let it get close enough to share in the food. It just hoped to join in the foraging until satisfied. Nearby, there was water, and it ambled to where the others drank and had its own share. One of the other beasts snorted at it, and nudged its neck. Some of the other beasts liked to play, but right now it just wanted to eat. It nudged back and made a sound, hoping it would get the hint.

Something called out – one of those two-legged animals; it made the same sound the others had – loudly. 

It bolted, jumping thin logs and racing from the ghost it felt on its heels. It could still hear the voice calling out, but it didn’t stop.

***

At the edge of the clearing, a two-legged animal sat alone. Its mane was short, light-coloured, from what it could tell. There was no crying out, no wild rush forward. This one wasn’t like the others. At least it didn’t seem to be. The change was nice.

Still, in the back of its mind, caution against getting too close kept it rooted in place. 

If neither bothered the other, it would be a good day, indeed. But it couldn’t help glancing toward the two-legged animal, wondering why it just sat there like it belonged with the trees, grass, and fallen wood like a rock burrowed nicely in the earth.

At length, it approached the animal, though stopping and starting many times. The animal never moved, just watched with what felt like curiosity. With each step closer, the tension eased.

A falcon cried somewhere in the distance, making it stop. It hesitated and stamped, but then regained confidence. The animal hadn’t moved once; there was nothing to fear. At least, it felt like there wasn’t. By the time it reached the animal, any sense of fear or caution had fled. It snorted and bent down to nuzzle the light-coloured mane. It inhaled, liking the scent, but unable to work out why. Freshness with a hint of sweat and dampness clung to the skin. The horse grunted, and stepped back when movement caught its eye, then waited for the sudden rapid beating of its heart to settle. The creature stroked gently over the horse’s jaw, to the top of its head. It leaned into the touch, dropping its head further. The hand retreated, and the horse sighed, nudging forcefully at the animal when it rose. There didn’t seem to be any ill-will from the animal, just a soothing presence and quiet tones. It watched the blurry figure settle between its own neck and shoulder. Firm hands moved over its muzzle, delicate in their touch. The feeling was pleasant, a murmur of sensation that washed over hair and skin, sank into it with steady pressure. Pressure. Then bindings, a feeling of _something touching_ that hadn’t been there a moment ago, wrapped around its face. The need to get away erupted; its skin and head burned. Rapidly blinking, it neighed, took a step back, but felt unsteady. It shook its head, feeling like a flood of light rushed through a cavern in its mind where there had only been darkness, searing all thought and feeling. A consciousness formed that hadn’t been there before. Thoughts and memories were a river, rushing angrily over falls, and colliding into a torrent; Harry reared, and a voice stalled his flight. 

“Calm down, Potter,” came the steady voice again.

Both voice and name were familiar, but distorted like images seen through a rain-pelted window. As each droplet ran, the picture became clearer. Potter. Harry Potter. He was Harry Potter. But he didn’t feel like himself. He couldn’t see properly, and all around him sounds were heavier, more distinct than ever: the calm breaths of the man before him, the birds chirping, frogs talking to one another. It was like each sound had a colour and shape depending on its rhythm. They were all around, funnelling into his ears. Even inhaling felt overwhelming. Scents wafted through the air, suffusing him with dizzy familiarity. 

“Potter, you’re alright.”

Harry blinked, turned his head at an odd angle. Shifting, he stepped back, continuing until he felt a tug on his face.

“What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?” Speaking felt odd. Words were longer, and his voice wasn’t his own. The joint of his mouth needed more room to open. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain what’s going on!” Harry looked down, whipped his head up, and saw his body. He was inexplicably aware of every movement, of the grass under his hooves, the feeling of the shifting air as it lifted hair on his flanks and left it alone again. The change in vision, a limited panorama that blurred at the edges, but had sharper focus directly in front, became clear.

“The horn,” Malfoy said, and a memory vaguely surfaced in Harry’s thoughts. “The horn you blew belonged to the Lord of the Chase. He’s punishing you.”

“ _What_?” Harry scraped his hoof across the grass. He set his head high and looked down at Malfoy.

“That horn you blew wasn’t yours to blow. You’re being punished for offending the Lord of the Chase. Please spare me the arguments about that sort of thing being a myth; you're walking evidence of the fact that at least some of it isn't. I’ve been… enlisted to get you sorted out again. It’s not a sort of magic we can do anything about; the Lord of the Chase is the only one likely to be able to reverse the enchantment, and since he took his horn back, we can’t conveniently summon him, so you and I are going to have to go on a little trip to seek an audience with him. Your director managed to persuade the university to lend him one of their curiosities, thankfully - it's called Hector's Bridle, and if it gets lost or broken neither of us had better be around to face the consequences - I'm sure we could have caught you without it, but it will certainly make everything else easier."

Feeling unaccountably thick, Harry stared, incredulous, then made a noise he hadn’t realised he was capable of making. He couldn’t get away; whatever Malfoy had put on him kept him from moving more than a few feet. Being anywhere else would have been preferable to standing in that field with Draco Malfoy.

Lord of the Chase – Harry had no idea what that meant, and the idea he had become a horse was ludicrous. _Ridiculous_. Only he had evidence: four legs and hooves, and—

“Good god, Potter, I hadn't realised what a shrimp you are,” Malfoy interrupted Harry’s careening train of thought, appraising, educated eyes sweeping over him. Harry could see Malfoy mentally directing his cast of thoughts to tangle into a full-on Shakespearian comedy, one Harry was sure he wouldn’t like.

“Stuff it, Malfoy.”

“If you were any shorter, I wouldn’t be able to ride you. I’ll have my knees practically wrapped round my neck as it is.”

“Who said anything about you riding me? You’re _not_ riding me.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow superciliously. “Oh, yes, I am.”

“You’re _not riding me_!” Harry said firmly and backed away, raising his head.

Folding his arms, Malfoy said, “I’m not walking all that way. Get used to it, Potter. You’re a horse, and I will ride you. Behave yourself, or I’ll put the bit on that bridle.” 

“You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“I can’t imagine what gives you that idea.”

Harry snorted. “Of course you would. Harry Potter gets himself turned into a horse...”

“You do realise that a bit would shut you up as well, don’t you?” Malfoy added unhelpfully.  
Neighing angrily, Harry stepped back. Malfoy pulled something from his pocket: a sort of jointed bar with lumps on it and a ring at each end; his calculating gaze followed Harry, and silvery drops melted to the ground. The bar shrank slightly.

“I’m not coming over there for that,” Harry said, puffing his chest out and lowering his head. Whatever Malfoy held in his hand, Harry didn’t want in his mouth; his knowledge of horsemanship was limited, but he was sufficiently clever to work out Malfoy held the bit he’d mentioned. 

Malfoy made a complicated gesture, and Harry was dragged forward by the head. “You must be a brilliant father. Do you keep your son from talking by putting things in his mouth, too?” 

Whatever magic Malfoy wielded, the thing on his face held Harry still; he rested his hands on Harry’s nose. “I don’t need to. Now, be a good horse and open wide, Potter...” 

Harry clamped his mouth shut. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and pinched Harry’s nostrils closed with his free hand. When Harry needed to inhale, there was nothing but the scent of Malfoy and the barrier of his hand. 

“You’re a—”

Further comment stalled as Malfoy stuffed the bit into Harry’s mouth; it slid over his tongue, keeping him from moving it. At least the thing was smooth, even if it stifled continued protests as Malfoy did something else to secure it in place. And as though he hadn’t just forced Harry into submission, Malfoy patted his neck like he was a proper pet. “That’s a good lad. Stand still a minute while I get the saddle on.”

Harry snorted, glaring. Malfoy measured him with a glance and pulled a sack from behind the tree stump he’d been standing next to. Harry wanted no part of it; definitely didn’t want Malfoy on his back, and couldn’t stand having something that smelled like lavender wrapped around his face. 

“Do not attempt to tread on my feet. I mean it,” Malfoy said, moving to fit the saddle on Harry’s back. Harry swung his head round to watch, bringing Malfoy and what he was doing into focus. Once Malfoy got the thing settled, he reached down and began to thread strips of leather. Harry inhaled, satisfaction rising in him at Malfoy’s difficulty with buckling it.

Malfoy looked up, glaring, then buried his elbow below Harry’s ribs. Startled, Harry reared back, swinging his forelegs angrily, futilely, to fight off the threat.

Malfoy backed away and waved his hand sharply, the bridle jerking Harry back down. 

“Don’t do that, Potter! You kick me in the head, and you’ll be a horse for the rest of your life.”

“Don’ e’bow me ’n th’ ’ibs.”

“Let me fasten the girth properly, then.”

Harry snorted. Malfoy returned to cinch the strap in place and fiddled with the dangling leather hitting Harry’s sides. 

Then something seemed to occur to Malfoy and he stopped. “Reins.”

Harry heard Malfoy digging in his pockets and swung his head round to watch a long, tightly wrapped length of leather being uncoiled. Once they had been attached, Malfoy surveyed the apparatus critically, then ran his hand along the leather. It looked different, lighter, perhaps than it had before. Nodding his satisfaction, Malfoy stepped up to Harry’s side with a look of warning. “Do not start playing silly buggers, Potter. I mean that most sincerely.”

To Harry, having Malfoy on his back felt like balancing an annoying, full carrier bag constantly shifting every time he did. Malfoy’s legs wrapped around his ribs felt odd. It was centred and Malfoy seemed to know what he was doing, since he wasn’t rocking around or shifting a lot, but still Harry protested, disliking how he’d become no more than a load-bearing animal, and had to carry Malfoy. 

“Oh, grow up. You could pull a trap that weighs seven or eight times more than I do. Easily.”

Maybe so, but Harry felt it was the principle that mattered. He shouldn’t be a horse; he should be himself: dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a nicely defined body, if he said so himself. Not any more, it seemed. Harry couldn’t even tell what colour he was apart from lighter areas amidst the ink-stains of his flanks. 

A firm squeeze around his side stole Harry’s indignation and replaced it with confusion. He looked at Malfoy and just got a sigh.

“Alright. Equestrianism for novices. Squeezing your ribcage means I want you to start moving. Doing it again means I want you to move faster. Applying pressure evenly to the bit means that I want you to slow down; applying it to the left side only means that I want you to go left, and applying it to the right side only means that I want you to go right. It’s not terribly complicated.” 

Tossing his head, Harry made a noise and kicked up mud with his hoof.

“Do you want me to find myself a whip?”

Instinct took over: Harry didn’t want to submit, and the horse didn’t want to be whipped; he reared back again, feeling the weight on his back shift forward. He dropped to the ground.

“Potter! Behave!”

Harry’s replies sounded heavy around the bit in his mouth, but he managed to enunciate ‘git’.

“Do you _want_ to be a horse for the rest of your life? Because I can go home any time. I could just turn you loose to run around the countryside. It wouldn’t be long before some nice rural type takes you home. And _gelds_ you.” 

Harry liked his bits intact, and the threat, however mild, further angered him. If Malfoy turned him loose, Harry wouldn’t see his children again, but knowing Malfoy would make good on his word, he stifled his anger and snorted, stepping slowly into a walk to accustom himself to Malfoy’s weight and how he had to carry it. How it felt to have four legs instead of two, and how to cope with having such broad vision.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, scratching Harry’s neck reassuringly. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

Unwilling to remain a horse longer than he had to, Harry humphed and continued unsteadily since Malfoy hadn’t directed him.

Malfoy laughed softly. “I promise you, Potter, I’m actually pretty good at this. I won’t boot you in the ribs or bash your mouth around. I have light hands and an excellent seat.”

Replying would have been pointless and practically impossible, so Harry remained quiet and adjusted to the feeling of Malfoy digging his heels in, or squeezing the reins. He felt it in his jaw every time, and when the bit moved, he chewed it.

After a while, when Harry had just got used to walking with Malfoy on his back, he heard, “You’re not a bad-looking horse, you know. Not quite the finest bit of blood and bone I’ve ever crossed, but your conformation’s generally perfectly acceptable. Shame about the mud and grass-stains.” Harry felt Malfoy tug lightly at his mane. “Your mane and tail could do with pulling,” he remarked meditatively. “You must have Welsh blood. Very pretty-faced.”

Harry grunted a vague response that was more snort than speech, and Malfoy laughed, patting Harry’s neck. “That’s not an insult; it’s a characteristic of Welsh horses. Well, they’re mostly ponies, strictly, but you’ve clearly got something else in you as well. You’re definitely a cobby type. I don’t know; maybe one of the heavy horse breeds. It’s a good combination, whatever it is.” 

The compliment surprised Harry; through school, all the pair of them traded were insults about one another’s families, especially Harry’s mother. No one wanted to talk about his mother. Those who his father shared a surname with had long since disowned him for his choice in wives; for certain, his father had disappointed his parents greatly. Thinking about his life lived with his aunt Emily depressed him. Not remembering - or at least pretending he didn’t remember - was easier.

“Oh, yes. Your mother was a Jones, of course. Good Welsh stock there, I should think,” Malfoy continued, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “Would you like to show me your trot, Potter?”

Harry was suspicious. He kept waiting for the Malfoy from school to resurface, to mock him for his circumstances, or to throw his carelessness in his face, but Malfoy kept things simple, limiting his talk to Harry as a horse – a slightly intelligent horse, but a horse all the same. In fact, he hadn’t even insulted him any more than Ron would about his height. Briefly, Harry wondered if they could forget the past and come to an understanding. What purpose it would serve, he had no idea. _Get us through this? Make us best mates? Yeah, right._

Harry snorted and carried on. 

Quiet settled down. Harry began to relax, letting his mind drift. Rocks, trees, air that was easy to breathe, the sound of water flowing over stone, familiar things all round, but not at the same time. Malfoy had said they were going to the Lord of the Chase’s realm... Harry wondered if that was where he’d been going in and out of ever since he’d become a horse, where everything felt heavier and smelled more alive. He knew he couldn’t be sure and wouldn’t know until they got there unless he asked Malfoy, but having kept the peace so far, he wanted to keep it as long as he could. Only an idiot would really ask the obvious question: Harry was a magic-user; the things that couldn’t be explained away with a mundane explanation were inevitably down to magic. The bridle was one such thing - it tied Harry to Malfoy somehow, keeping him in the real world – if his inference was right, anyway.

Then Malfoy squeezed Harry’s ribs again, urging him faster, and Harry faltered, fumbling on the steps. It was odd to feel Malfoy’s weight rock, then change again. 

“Try to move your left hindleg at the same time as your right foreleg,” Malfoy instructed; Harry tried. “Don’t over-think it. Your body knows what to do. You’re doing very well. Just try to relax into it. Look as far ahead as you can and concentrate on going at this sort of speed.”

He slowed, unsure of his footing. Trusting Malfoy wasn’t something he was used to. 

“It’s alright, Potter. I won’t let you run into anything.” Malfoy seemed sincere. 

_To trust or not to trust._ One day, he knew he had to trust someone apart from Ron, and right now, the expert was Malfoy. 

With no other choice, Harry set off. He ignored the blur of trees in his vision and focussed ahead, listening to the sound of his hooves against the ground change tentatively from a two-beat rhythm to a suspended three-beat, then settle in. The fast repetition was soothing and hypnotic, and as daylight faded, he heard Malfoy say, “You can stop when you need to rest.”

Harry hadn’t noticed the throb in his muscles until Malfoy had mentioned resting; the cadence of his hooves and feeling of the landscape going by had been enough of a distraction, and Malfoy hadn’t spoken much. Now, Harry wanted nothing more than to stop, drink water, eat, and rest. 

Slowing, he came to a standstill by a copse and heaved in lungfuls of air as he waited for Malfoy to dismount.

 

Malfoy removed the saddle and the bit gently, and put them on the ground when he was on his feet again.

Watching, Harry admired the view: Malfoy reached down and plucked a handful of grass, then knotted it together. What he was going to do wasn’t clear. A protest sat on Harry’s tongue, but he didn’t have time to get it out: Malfoy began running the bundle over Harry’s body. It felt harder than grass. Startled, Harry side-stepped, but realised fighting would accomplish nothing. That, and the firm movement felt nice, drawing a human-sounding groan from Harry. 

Such care was a surprise to Harry. The Malfoy he remembered from school had never been terribly kind or gentle about anything. Not that Harry would’ve said he had been, either – not now, anyway, with the experience of age and a long memory for his own stupid mistakes. Every time he tried to think in a straight line, his thoughts went wonky, and getting them back on track was like trying to move a mountain. 

He’d give anything to wake up and know that this was a nightmare. 

“God, Potter, but you stink.”

“Thanks,” Harry huffed, dropping his head to pick at the cool grass on instinct.

Malfoy laughed.

“Why’re ’u ’n su’h a g’d ’ood?” Harry asked.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

_Heaven forbid I offend Malfoy’s sensibilities any more._ “Why’re you in such a good mood?”

“I’ve always enjoyed a good canter across country.”

Harry rolled his eyes, continuing to graze. “Can I have some water?” he asked once Malfoy had finished wiping the sweat away.

For a moment he thought Malfoy’s silence meant he wasn’t going to get any, but the man gathered a few rocks, some wood and various other things he found and began to fuse the pieces into something resembling a large bowl, only all of the seams made Harry think of a skull. He smelled the water when it hit the make-shift trough, grateful for the fresh scent. 

“Don’t plan on running any time soon if you drink too much.” 

“Mm,” Harry replied as he plunged his nose into the rock basin. Too deeply – water covered his nostrils. He jerked his head back, sneezing so hard his head spun. It took a few moments for the discombobulating sensation to subside; finally, Harry felt comfortable enough to try again. He was slow to put his mouth where he wanted it, and slurped unhurriedly until sated. He sighed heavily and backed away, feeling every hair out of place on his back, the still-damp parts of his flanks and shoulders itching. He fancied rolling in the grass.

Harry trotted a few feet from Malfoy and lowered himself to the ground slowly, and rolled, letting the ground scratch places he could no longer reach. An oddly human groan of pleasure rumbled in his throat as he heaved his large body until the uncomfortable prickle had dissipated. The human part of Harry taunted him for acting like an animal, rolling in the dirt – there should have been another body with him, hard and yielding to pleasure, but Harry was a horse, not himself; circumstance chased away the thoughts being rubbed down had conjured, and numbed, Harry flopped inelegantly to his side, then stood. It was a pity Malfoy wasn’t ugly. Harry followed his fluid movements, appreciating Malfoy’s lovely arse and accompanying thighs. Age had truly done Malfoy wonders. _Like to get him in bed. See how he looks on his knees..._ He was tall, too; Harry had a weakness for taller men and rich voices, too, and Malfoy had a smooth drawl with crisp enunciation that had Harry been human, he’d have engaged conversation just to hear him speak. 

It wasn’t fair.

He realised that if he didn’t stop thinking like a human, he’d embarrass himself immensely.

Harry turned, walked to the tree line, feeling the magic reining him in as he got too far from Malfoy. Behind him, Malfoy made a noise, and Harry turned his head to see his… rider… with a jaundiced expression.

“What?”

“You’re muddy,” he said. “I’m going to have to groom you properly now.” 

Malfoy muttered something that Harry didn’t even want repeating.

He shook off again, feeling better physically. Viscerally, though, Harry was lost, trying not to panic. One stupid impulse had dropped him into a nightmare. Hard. 

_Bloody horn._

***

Nighttime settled like a soft breeze. For the first time since he’d become a horse, Harry felt closer to his new senses. All was quiet, and the edge of his anger was abating. Harry knew it wasn’t Malfoy’s fault he’d got himself turned into a horse; more, Malfoy was helping him, and Harry needed the help no matter how little his pride wanted to admit it. Stubbornness would get him nowhere.

They had never been friends, but Harry had grown out of the single-minded idiocy of his youth and could see in retrospect that things had not been as black-and-white as they had seemed two decades before. Malfoy had behaved exactly as his parents and their cronies - and his peers, who consisted of the children of his parents’ cronies - had raised and encouraged him to behave; Harry could see with the objective eye of hindsight that nothing in Malfoy’s experience, at least until his late teens, would have given him any reason to dispute the political beliefs in which he had been brought up. It seemed to Harry that they had all been a little too credulous and blinkered, and too passionately committed to their animosity when they should have been old enough to know better; even Ron could admit that much. Harry still felt badly about what had happened with Malfoy’s sister, though. He’d liked her and hadn’t meant for her reputation to be ruined at seventeen. They both liked the idea of videoing themselves having sex, but someone had nicked his mobile and sent the video to everyone at their school and it had got round like wild fire. Harry’s own parents had been disappointed in him for both his sexual activity and his crassness of filming the tryst.

Malfoy seemed to have set the past aside in the same way as Harry had, though, and Harry was glad of it: the situation was difficult enough without active hostility. 

Gratitude and calm ebbed against him with the breeze, and when Malfoy summoned Harry for his grooming, there was no argument to keep him from complying. Malfoy wasted no time; he began brushing Harry down, and Harry, surprised by how good it felt, leaned into the firm strokes. Pleasure was pleasure; Harry felt no shame in vocalising his appreciation of Malfoy’s attentions. 

The lingering emotional thorns seemed to drop away, each stroke like balm to tender skin.

“Potter, I’d be a lot happier about this if you’d stop making sex noises.” 

_What?_ Harry grunted – though, with some difficulty, considering a horse’s throat wasn’t made to protest the same way as a human’s. Honestly, he thought, some people had nothing better to do than throw their own hang-ups onto other people like a noose. It was suffocating. The bloody twat may not be – or have been - evil, but he sure as hell still had the ability to get on Harry's nerves. _Where’s he get that bollcks from, anyway?_

“I’m not making sex noises!”

Malfoy apparently felt the need to prove Harry wrong: if he'd been himself, the noises Malfoy made would have gone straight to Harry's cock. They _were_ sex noises; the man moaned like a Parisian whore, and it sounded too good. Harry stamped and gave himself a mental shake, clamping self-control down before he had to find out whether the horse’s body would reflect his human reaction.

“If that’s what you sound like…”

Malfoy snorted. 

“ _I didn't_ sound like _that_ ,” Harry insisted. Comparing Malfoy to a whore of any kind wouldn’t go down well, and Harry unfortunately had the experience to back up his belief, regardless of what Malfoy assumed about how he sounded. The last Parisian whore had had a mouth like heaven and an arse to match. Even better than the German bloke Harry still had to work with sometimes.

“Oh, really.” 

“Really. Has anybody told my kids where I am?” Harry asked, changing the subject. He didn’t care if Ginny knew where he was, but he did want Mel, Albus and James to know that he hadn’t just copped off with some bloke and ditched them; that was the sort of thing Ginny would stuff their minds with anyway – pus-like drainage only meant to harm. _Bloody woman was good at that._

“Yes; Johnson did that.” 

Relieved, Harry tried to focus on something other than Malfoy's hands on his flank. “Good. Er, don’t you have a son?”

Malfoy moved to Harry’s mane. “Yes.” 

There was no wedding ring on Malfoy’s finger, but Harry remembered him having a wife. He’d seen them two years ago when Albus had gone to school, a well-suited pair of arrogant aristocrats. “I thought you were married, too. Astoria? Isabella? Something like that. Old name.” 

“I was. She died.”

“Oh. Er, sorry.” Harry wanted to clear his throat, but it wasn’t happening; even to himself, he sounded like he was choking. “I didn’t know.”

“Yes, I realise that. There’s no reason why you should, of course. My family never did interest you in the slightest.” Malfoy’s tone sounded like Harry had scratched open an old wound.

Harry wanted to step away, anything not to feel Malfoy touch him just then. He felt dirty for no reason he could explain. It wasn’t like they’d been mates. They couldn’t even look at each other in school without glaring; now there was part of him who wanted to nuzzle Malfoy or something.... It was the same sort of feeling Harry had when Mel had a nightmare and he wanted to chase her monsters away. The feeling had a name, unfamiliar and frightening. Sympathy crept along his back like an obsessive-compulsive bug needing to step across every ridge of his spine. Still, Harry was surprised, even pained, and surprised for feeling any sort of sympathy or pain on Malfoy’s behalf. 

“If I remember, the only interest you ever had in mine was that mine wasn’t good enough. Evelyn Potter eloped with your great-great-great-great grandfather’s would-be bride, then my father decided to marry Ron’s aunt, who, according to you, isn’t good enough. Then you add the politics and your sister.” Harry shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to my father since they tried to start that second war over seizing assets and redistributing family wealth. I arrested my own father that day.” Harry kicked himself mentally. He didn't want to argue about the past, when both of them – probably – still felt basically that they were right, or at least wronged by the other. The philosophical calm he'd felt while he grazed, before Malfoy had opened his mouth again, evaporated into prickly silence. Talking about the past always made him feel like a dry branch, ready to snap at the slightest pressure, but he found it difficult to imagine a conversation they could have that wouldn't involve it. There was a silent understanding with Ron and Helen: they didn’t talk about Harry’s relatives, or his divorce. Things were easier that way; Harry kept his friends, his sanity, and was able to reconstruct his delusions about politics and his family on his own, where he felt safest. 

They were his terms.

The strokes stopped on Harry’s mane; he craned his neck to see Malfoy do something to the brush before continuing.

“Do you think we’re old enough to draw a line under it and start over?”

“By all means,” Malfoy replied coolly. 

“How long ago? Did she die, I mean?” Anything had to be better to talk about than school.

“The week after our sons went to school,” Malfoy replied.

_Two weeks... when I was getting my first letters from Albus and feeling so proud of him for making friends already. Two weeks and Malfoy and his son lost the wife and mother who clearly meant a lot to them._ “Bloody hell. That’s been... two years. What happened?” 

“She drowned.” 

Harry shifted. He didn’t really know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ just didn’t feel like the appropriate response, nor did ‘Are you alright?’. He looked at the ground and considered for a moment. “Er, well... I’m sorry to hear that. The few times I saw you together... you, um, looked like a good pair.”

Silence dropped like a wet cotton ball. Harry didn’t know what he’d have to say if their positions were reversed. They were just schoolboys with more piss and vinegar than brains still, it seemed. Harry couldn’t blame Malfoy, really, for not responding. There had never been a reason to before. It certainly wasn’t something they had in common. Harry couldn’t blame Malfoy for his abrupt change in mood; if someone he was on barely-civil terms with asked him personal questions, he’d be cold, too. 

“I’ll just go lie down or something...” Harry offered, feeling uncomfortable.

“I haven't finished.” 

Harry huffed; no other solution presented itself. “Fine. I’ll stand here,” he said awkwardly.

When he’d finished Harry’s mane, Malfoy moved to his tail. Harry looked round at Malfoy. Malfoy glared at Harry’s tail, but he didn’t brush it with the viciousness Harry saw in his face. Guilt bubbled up, along with the unpleasant realisation Malfoy was too close to his arse for comfort, since he was to all intents and purposes naked; the horse’s instinct reared up, too, wanting Malfoy to move.

“Look, you don’t have to do that. If it’s anything like my hair, it’s just going to look like shit again by morning.”

Malfoy continued with a hum like he’d heard Harry but didn’t particularly want to talk any more.

Harry tried to engage him again, or at least emphasise his sincerity; it seemed to have got lost in the past: “I didn’t mean anything awful by what I said, you know. I was just making conversation. I didn't know.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” 

Harry sighed deeply; Malfoy’s tone didn’t give him much more than an assumption that Malfoy had accepted his ignorance as a given. He couldn’t imagine what Malfoy must have gone through losing his wife. Maybe if Harry gave Malfoy something painful of his, it’d balance and dam the sadness, keep it from making their time together more uncomfortable.

“Ginny divorced me after Mel was born.”

“I know.” Curt and toneless, his response made Harry feel there was nothing he could give that would even the scales: luck nor history were not on Harry’s side in the least.

“Oh. Well, I suppose everyone one would. Ginny was pretty popular. The papers sort of fell all over it.”

“Yes. They also loved talking about my wife’s suicide.”

Before his brain could tell him it was a bad idea, Harry blurted, “Suicide. Did she—?” Harry stopped and wished his mouth hadn’t got so far ahead of his brain. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.” Having lost his wife had to have been painful enough, but to have her name run through the mud after it must have been even worse. 

“She didn’t. But since I was out of the country at the time, they could hardly call it murder.” 

“But they called it a suicide? Why?” Harry clenched his teeth, frustrated. It was too late; he’d nosily asked something that Malfoy didn’t want to share with him. He really wished his brain and mouth would line up. It would make life easier, for the foreseeable future, anyway.

“Because my name is Malfoy.” 

The bitterness in Malfoy’s tone was familiar, one Harry could empathise with, but saying that would do nothing. They were strangers.

“You really loved her.” Harry realised he sounded surprised, but he couldn’t help it. Malfoy had never been the sort give off an air of deep and abiding love for anything apart from himself. _Huh. Maybe he has grown up. Or maybe I was always wrong about him._

“Of course I did.” 

Harry blinked. He supposed he was surprised that Malfoy was capable of admitting to having actual feelings. The same probably could’ve been said of him. If they carried on this way, there would be nothing but thorns and nettles in every word they spoke. Harry needed to fix it.

“I, uh... I don’t really know anything about you, you know. I don’t think you’re still like you were in school, though. So... maybe we could just start afresh. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck like this. And it might not seem like it, but I’m not the same nit I was in school. Reckon you aren’t, either.”

“As you will.” 

“I appreciate the help,” Harry said, smiling.

Malfoy gave Harry an odd look. “Have you attempted to ingest a thistle?” 

Harry laughed, making a wheezing sound as he shook. He wondered for a moment how stupid he looked trying to smile with a face not made for that sort of expression.

“You should be able to doze quite well standing up. Horses do.”

It took Harry a moment to register the change in subject. Perhaps it was a truce, of sorts. That would work for now. “Alright… Have you got somewhere to sleep?”

Glancing up, Malfoy said, “It’s called the ground.” 

He cocked his head and looked at Malfoy, then chuckled – a sound that probably would frighten any animals within breathing distance of them. _He would have a sense of humour only a mother could love_. Malfoy and making a joke. _The world really was about to end._  
“There's a sleeping bag in the rucksack. There wasn't room for a tent, but it's a fine night.” 

Harry’s hearing had to be off, or his sense of who Malfoy was. Much as he hated to admit it, it was probably the latter. He had no answer for Malfoy giving up his stately manor for a sleeping bag and the stars as a blanket, even if it was only for one night. He didn’t even seem to resent Harry for it; he just started pulling his things out and setting up like he’d been doing this for years. _What else is he going to do, push me to a heart attack?_

“Well, you should sleep, then... or something. How long before we’re supposed to get where we’re going?”

“It depends how hard you want to push. A day, maybe two.” 

“Well, the sooner the better, right? Then you can go back to your life, and I can avoid any more horns.”

Malfoy snorted – thankfully in amusement, and Harry grazed, patiently hoping Malfoy would be done with his tail soon. Sharing his instincts with a beast wasn’t easy.

“Are you not done back there yet?” 

“Your tail is the better part of three feet long, and it’s tangled.” 

Grumbling, Harry dipped his mouth to the grass again. Knowing he wouldn’t fall over felt odd; his joints and extra legs knew what to do, helped him remain upright.

“If you break wind, there will be trouble.” 

Smiling to himself, Harry appreciated the attempt at humour. “I’ll warn you, shall I?”

“That would be a very good idea.” 

“If it’s so tangled, just cut the thing. I don’t like you being behind me.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accuse me of, Potter—” 

“No! No, you’re misunderstanding. It’s not... ‘me’. I can’t see you. I can’t explain it. I can see you, just not clearly. But it’s more... I don’t know you well enough to trust you, do I? So the horse wants me to run because what you’re doing isn’t clear. I’m not accusing you of trying to murder me or anything like that.” 

“Fine.”

Malfoy stepped out of range and the rising panic eased. The guilt lingered like a face spot when a date was only minutes away.

“It wasn’t an insult, Malfoy. You try being a horse and wanting to run from everything. They aren’t _my_ instincts.”

“I’m going to get some sleep,” Malfoy said, ignoring him. “Try not to tread on me if you’re blundering around in the dark.” 

In his head, Harry rolled his eyes and mouthed off. It was frustrating that no matter how badly he wanted to stop being the clueless, idiotic adolescent he’d been in school, Malfoy still managed to push the same old buttons, and he found himself behaving like a stroppy fourteen-year-old again. 

Harry turned and grazed as Malfoy put a bed together from more things in the sack he’d had earlier. It gave Harry a clear view of Malfoy’s arse and legs, the glossy leather riding boots and jodhpurs that outlined them perfectly. _Some things just aren’t fair._

When Malfoy had done preparing his ‘bed’, he rolled himself up and went quiet.

Harry said nothing.

It was going to be a long night.

***

By the first light of morning, Harry couldn’t stand being idle any more. He approached Malfoy, watching for a moment, fascinated with the tranquillity of Malfoy’s face. Lines of worry and stress seemed to have smoothed in the night. He took deep breaths, his lips parted only a touch. Harry thought he looked paler than he had in school but recognised that could be his vision being a disadvantage. Like this, though, Malfoy was... whatever Harry thought, better left alone for now. Harry didn’t sleep that calmly. He tossed and turned most nights as though he had an opponent, only to wake with sheets wrapped around him and pillows across the room.

Closer now, Harry could smell Malfoy, light musk and what Harry assumed was Malfoy’s natural scent. It was pleasant and light. 

Inappropriate thoughts surfaced, but Harry shoved them aside and nosed at Malfoy’s head. Getting to their destination immediately tugged on Harry’s mind; he wanted to be himself again, wanted Malfoy to be able to return home and do whatever it was he did. Then Harry could get back to trying to be a father to his children... if they’d let him. If it was too late, he wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he didn’t want to think that. He may not always like his children, but he loved them, and if Malfoy could get him back to them unharmed, he would owe a debt he doubted he would ever be able to repay and would make up all the lost time he’d spent being a shitty father. 

Harry wondered what Malfoy was feeling as he sniffed and nuzzled. It didn’t seem to disturb him, and Harry rather liked having contact that wasn’t strictly related to being a horse. He was still human, with human needs; his body just was that of a horse... and apparently some of his urges to play and bond with his rider.

Malfoy jolted awake, expressing his displeasure loudly.

“Sorry,” Harry said immediately. “You smell good,” he blurted, then paused. “I was bored.” He knew it was a poor excuse for rudeness. He took a step back, head down, wondering if he looked like he’d ingested a thistle again.

“And clearly decided I’d had enough sleep.” Malfoy stretched cautiously. 

“It’s morning,” Harry pointed out, a weak diversion from his behaviour. The bridle was a fetter for Harry, one that kept him within ten yards of Malfoy, and while it had been a lovely view between dozing and grazing, Harry had lost his patience. Not to mention the air was crisp, and he had a coat, but he’d had to move around constantly to stay warm. “Do you want more sleep?”

“I did. I doubt I’d get off again right now.” Malfoy winced.

Harry watched sympathetically as Malfoy arched and his back sounded like twigs snapping underfoot.

“Have you had all you want to drink for the moment?” Malfoy asked, moving toward the makeshift trough.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Malfoy said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, shifting his weight and turning his head.

Malfoy looked at Harry as though he were an idiot. “I quite like being clean, Potter.” He continued at his buttons.

Knowing he’d like watching Malfoy too much, Harry said, “I’ll just go round here...” Being a horse hadn’t altered what he found attractive.

Eventually Malfoy announced he was ready, and Harry returned, admiring the attractive flush to Malfoy’s face. He refrained from commenting; the uncertainty of how Malfoy would take it didn’t sit well. Harry flicked his tail. 

“Are we going to have to fight about this again?” Malfoy asked, holding up the saddle.

“No.”

Mild surprise flickered on Malfoy’s face. “Oh. Good. Thank you.” He crossed to Harry and settled everything in place.

“You’re going to put that bit in my mouth again, aren’t you?”

Malfoy paused. “I could attach reins directly to the bridle, I suppose.”

“I don’t suppose it matters. We’ll get there today.” Not like he could have a conversation at the pace he’d kept last evening anyway.

Considering, Malfoy detached the reins from the bit, using creative spell-work to alter the pieces before attaching it to the bridle. Quiet assurance shone through Malfoy’s actions; Harry was impressed. When he was done, Malfoy surveyed his work critically, then moved Harry’s face from side to side to inspect his handiwork. Absently, Malfoy petted Harry, the silence seeming to make Malfoy forget he was willingly giving affection to Harry Potter; Harry Potter as a horse, but still Harry Potter, and Harry remained quiet until Malfoy tickled between his nostrils. Harry chuckled – in as much as he was capable.

“I’m sorry. It’s force of habit,” Malfoy said blinking, realisation clear in his expression.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said. “Felt kind of nice, actually.”

Flushing lightly, Malfoy stepped back. Once he’d gathered everything, he swung into the saddle fluidly and they were off.

***

“You can sleep against me, if you want.” Evening had brought a chill that sank into the bones, and Harry suspected if he felt it, Malfoy did, too.

From his crude bed, Malfoy cracked an eye opened and watched Harry as he settled on the ground awkwardly and collapsed onto his side. A rustle of movement and the unmistakable warmth of Malfoy’s back against Harry’s followed. Malfoy muttered something about Harry not rolling over, and Harry gave a firm reassurance before drifting off to sleep. 

Harry woke in the middle of the night, fully rested, with an arm slung across his neck and a face buried in his mane. Malfoy’s breathing was deep and even, so Harry tried not to move, give him a chance to rest as much as possible. The previous day had been nothing but running, a few stops to rest, water, graze, let Malfoy eat, and relieve normal bodily functions, and more running. After multiple futile attempts to find what they were looking for, they had finally located it; Harry still didn’t know what it was, but Malfoy had said they should rest for the night, so Harry had agreed. At odd intervals, Malfoy rubbed his face in Harry’s mane, mumbling incoherently.

Stillness. Only a soft hum of insects and wind-nudged branches bothered Harry. An unfamiliar urge to flee lay over his thoughts, one Harry mastered with a steady reminder he was human.

Harry remained motionless, only flicking his ears or tail when a stiff breeze bothered him. Malfoy didn’t shiver, though, so he must have been warm enough. That was enough for Harry.

When morning came, Malfoy didn’t wake as roughly as he had the previous day; pensive silence followed several blinks and a squint against the sunlight sneaking through the clouds.

“Well, I can safely say this is the first time I’ve woken up cuddling a horse.”

Harry laughed. 

“I daresay it’s not the first time you’ve woken up with a leggy blond clinging to you,” Malfoy added. No abused-twig sounds accompanied his standing this time.

“No,” Harry confirmed, getting up slowly to a vague acknowledgement from Malfoy. The extra weight and legs were still foreign to Harry; and the itching on his neck and shoulders where Malfoy had slept plastered to him like water-slicked hair irritated him enough that he lowered himself to the ground and rolled until every prickle faded.

“Let me groom you before you have your drink, please. I’ll want to wash after I’ve done it.”

“Alright,” Harry said, approaching.

Malfoy applied the brush vigorously to Harry’s coat, mane, and tail. Harry watched, noticing the spider’s-silk scruff on Malfoy’s jaw and chin, and ash-like smudges under his eyes. His robe, austere for Harry’s impression of Malfoy, was full of wrinkles, and even a spot or two where he’d scraped the grass.

Direction after direction came, and Harry patiently did as told; he was emotionally uncomfortable leaning on Malfoy as his hooves were picked out, but there was nothing to be done. Malfoy was trusting in Harry, though, and Harry respected that. Clumps of grass and mud hit the ground as Malfoy worked. When he’d done with Harry’s forelegs, Malfoy ran his hand down Harry’s side. For a moment, Harry felt like talking didn’t make much difference; Malfoy was seeing a horse who talked, not Harry. It made Harry wonder if Malfoy’s behaviour was residual rivalry, but the thought stalled when Harry turned, watching Malfoy pick his hind-hooves. It’d been too long since he’d indulged his desires; seeing Malfoy’s shoulders, his arse, conjured images Harry didn’t need in his current form.

To distract himself, he commented, “Do you know, I don’t think anyone ever took this much care with me as a human.” Malfoy snorted. “I’m serious. And I hated people fussing over me if something happened at work.”

“You’ve had the wrong people taking care of you, then.”

“It’s not really a choice most of the time, though, is it?”

Malfoy shrugged. “It is when you reach adulthood. Astoria looked after me as much as I looked after her.”

“ _I looked_ after Ginny.” During their divorce, she’d made it clear she thought Harry hadn’t, though. Harry’s memory wasn’t perfect, but he remembered taking care of the children while she’d been at work and exploring her educational opportunities because she wasn’t ready to be a mother and tied down. He remembered supporting her decision not to work and be with the kids, then her decision to open her own shop. After that, all the money spent on nothing, the giving without getting. Harry didn’t think he was perfect – far from it – but he’d been as good a husband as he could be before he’d worked out who he really was. Ginny took it much too personally, like Harry had decided one day to leave his children and everything because he no longer looked at her and wanted her for more than a decent conversation after work. Since then, Harry hadn’t been close to anyone. “Not keeping anyone for longer than a month or so doesn’t really give them a chance to want to look after you, I suppose.” 

Starting over and breaking free before emotions got involved was easier. Most of his lovers thought there was something more to him than there was, just like Ginny had when they’d been in school. Harry had learned it was easiest to fulfil a mutual need, rather than expect an emotional attachment, particularly after more than one of his lovers had given an exclusive interview in the paper, detailing buggering him with as many lurid details as the editor would let them get away with. That had been the last time Harry had allowed himself the pleasure of being fucked by another man. At least he no longer starred on the front page; once Harry’s proclivities had been known – announcing he was gay after a brief marriage to Ginny Johnson – the ridiculous articles had stopped cropping up weekly. Having no secrets had made Harry boring, not worth the space to the printers and editors.

“You have a really nice arse, Malfoy,” Harry blurted; the cling of jodhpurs left nothing to Harry’s imagination. Malfoy froze in place. “S-sorry. Er, I won’t do it again.”

To stay focussed, Harry faced forward. Malfoy relaxed, diligently picking at Harry’s hooves.

“If anyone had told me a week ago that a horse would tell me I have a nice arse...”

“Sorry, again. I know that was out of line. You’re trying to help me, and I’m really not... making you want to, am I?”

“I wouldn’t still be here if I actively wanted not to, would I? I don’t owe you anything.”

“No. You don’t.” After a long pause, Harry asked, “We’re here, then?”

“Yes. I just want to make sure you’re presentable. So you’d better get used to the fact that I’m brushing your tail properly today.”

Harry sighed. If Malfoy only knew how difficult it was to fight against a horse’s instincts, then maybe he’d understand. The genuine attraction Harry felt toward Malfoy didn’t help, either. His human side flared with thoughts a horse was better off without.

It didn’t take long for Harry to insult Malfoy. But Harry didn’t think Malfoy really had to wipe his arse like a child. He was a horse; he didn’t think it would matter to the Lord of the Chase. He grumbled, more irritated with himself for assuming the worst when Malfoy’s flannel never touched his arse and acting like an adolescent than anything Malfoy was actually doing; Malfoy had been decent to him, more than Harry deserved with his behaviour. Harry wasn’t the boy from school any more, and he’d prove that to Malfoy, wanted to prove himself. This was a Draco Malfoy Harry felt confident was a decent man, despite their pasts.

Diverting the conversation, Malfoy insisted Harry drink. When Malfoy began unbuttoning his clothes, Harry sputtered into the trough and turned quickly. If he’d been human, not touching would have been a challenge. At their age, most men had let themselves go, sporting paunches indicating that their wives or partners fed them well, and Harry couldn’t deny how much he liked Malfoy’s colouring, fit body. Harry watched, grazing, from a few feet away, as Malfoy shaved and tried to make his clothes a bit more presentable. 

“So, what do we do?”

“We cross through the soft place and into the Lord of the Chase’s realm. And then we ask him to turn you back into a human. And you try very hard not to offend him again.” 

“Alright. Lead the way?”

“How’s your Middle English?” Malfoy asked, leading Harry by the bridle.

“I was raised by non-magic users.”

A flat look came. “I’m guessing that that’s supposed to mean that you don’t actually speak it.”

“Well, no, why would I?”

Shrugging, Malfoy said, “The Lord does. That’s what he uses when he speaks a human tongue. If you don’t, don’t expect to understand much.”

“Do you?” Harry asked.

The look Malfoy gave told Harry what he needed to know. It gave Harry hope that plummeted with his stomach as they passed through the soft place. It smelled like bloody leaves, mould, moss, wet earth… Shadowy figures lined the path. Sunlight pierced the clouds, but none of it actually illuminated this soft place.

“Which one is the Lord?” Harry asked.

Malfoy hushed Harry. “Try the huge one on the throne.”

“They all look the same to me.”

“Then shut up and let me deal with this.”

They stopped, and a long conversation that sounded like a soup of German, Latin, and English passed between Malfoy and a storm-cloud figure. Nervously, Harry waited, time feeling like drain-pipe sludge dripping. Malfoy handled himself well, his responses firm – reminded Harry of Malfoy’s father, of power and confidence. It was sexy. Until the conversation became an argument, and what words Harry caught of the conversation made him uneasy. Like a quill pressing the full stop to the end of a sentence, the conversation ended. Malfoy turned to Harry.

“He said no. You transgressed against him, and it is his right to punish you in this manner. Shut _up_ and let me finish. Eventually he proposed a bargain. In three moons, it will be the night of the Great Hunt. The Lord of the Chase will ride at the head of the Hunt in pursuit of the chosen prey. He offered a race. You - we - will run against him. We can take our pick of the hounds, and the rest of the Hunt will keep out of it. If we take the prey before he reaches it, he’ll return you to your own form, and let us go.”

“Us? _We_?”

“There are two of us here, Potter.”

“But you’re not involved. Why would you do it?”

Irritation flashed across Malfoy’s face. “I’m here, Potter.”

“Alright. I can’t do anything else. If we don’t do it, I’ll just be a horse for the rest of my life... Now’s not the time for jokes.”

Malfoy snorted. “You’ll be a horse and I’ll be a Huntsman, and it’ll be for the rest of eternity.”

“What? I’m not agreeing to that. You don’t deserve that.”

“You don’t understand. We either accept his challenge, or we accept our fate as part of the Hunt.”

“So either way you’ve fucked yourself by getting involved.” Harry closed his eyes. “Fine. Accept his challenge. Might as well make a good show of it.”

Turning to the Lord of the Chase, Malfoy announced their agreement, a general murmur of acclamation rising around them. And the audience was over. The cloying scent of decay dissipated, and Malfoy turned to Harry.

“Alright, Potter. We have three months to get better at hunting than the local god of the hunt.”

“Brilliant.”

“And we’ll be living here.”

“What?”

“We can’t get out again until the Great Hunt.”

Harry stamped his foot.

“If you tread on me, I will never forgive you.” Malfoy led Harry away by the bridle.  
Harry scoffed, trying to pull his head free. “I’m sure you will for getting you stuck as a Huntsman permanently, too.”

Malfoy waved dismissively. “That won’t happen.”

Harry couldn’t think about it yet. “Where are we going?” Then a thought occurred to him. “Can you use magic? Or did you agree not to?”

“We’re going to our quarters, and yes. Well, up to a point. Given that he’s basically a god, Potter, using magic doesn’t give me any sort of advantage.”

“I suppose not,” Harry said mildly.

“Not to mention impractical.” 

“Tell me something about this whole thing that isn’t.”

Malfoy regarded Harry. “You. And me. I happen to be an extremely competent equestrian. You happen to be a bloody good horse. We’re in with a fair chance.” 

“Yes, with a pretty face. You said that. At least you’ll have a proper bed.”

“For a given value of pallet, straw mattress, and heap of furs, yes.” 

 

“Oh. Well, you can sleep against me, if you want,” Harry offered.

“I will be. The Huntsmen do sleep beside their horses.” 

“Alright.”

They walked in silence. “It’s been agreed that we can have a pavilion.”

“For training?” Harry asked.

“For sleeping. Training will take more room. I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to wearing a saddle. They’re going to provide one. And a proper set of brushes.” 

“As long as you don’t mind scratching me. Alright. Look, I’m really sorry you got mixed up in this. It wasn’t your problem,” Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. “I have a long history of getting mixed up in things that weren’t my problem.” 

A pang of sympathy lurched in Harry. If he’d been human, he’d have put his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, but he settled for nuzzling Malfoy’s head.

Surprised, Malfoy said, “I know it’s more or less that colour, but you can’t eat my hair. I’ll get you some oats when we get to our pavilion.” 

Harry laughed, glad that Malfoy didn’t seem to be angry about being caught up in Harry’s idiocy. If he was, Malfoy was hiding it well.

Their pavilion was an animal-hide tent, large, but not homey. Harry’s expectations hadn’t been high, though.

“Are we starting today?” Harry asked.

“Mmm. Should, really. Have some oats. I want a bath.”

“Alright. You’re not, er, bathing in here, are you?”

Regarding Harry, Malfoy asked, “Do you have a problem, Potter?”

“Not a problem, no. I find you attractive.”

Malfoy stared. “You’re a _horse_.”

“But I’m still me.”

“And a horse.”

Appalled Malfoy would think that, Harry spluttered, “I’m not... oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m not suggesting – that’s disgusting.” Malfoy looked relieved. “I’m just saying... you’re a fit bloke.”

“I don’t see why that’s a problem.” 

Either Malfoy was innocent, distracted, oblivious, or infuriatingly obtuse, or Harry’s compliment mattered as much as dust on a sleeve. “It’s not. Unless you don’t want a horse watching you. I can go outside. I don’t care. I’m just warning you.”

“As long as you don’t attempt to join me.” Malfoy shrugged.

“No, that’s even a bit too much for me.” Harry laughed.

Surreptitiously, Harry watched Malfoy as he ate and had his water, pitying himself for being a horse; he wouldn’t have minded touching Malfoy properly. Even the sound of appreciation Malfoy had made as he sank into the water had stirred uncomfortable thoughts for Harry. Being a horse made his appreciation awkward, perverted. He kept himself in control, watching Malfoy regard his clothing with disapprobation after drying. 

“It doesn’t smell that bad,” Harry remarked, running his gaze over Malfoy; he’d liked the earthy richness. 

Unable – unwilling – to turn away, Harry noted Malfoy wasn’t overly defined, or lacking in the incredible planes and curves of a man’s body. That Malfoy’s skin was pale was obvious; Harry couldn’t discern the colour of Malfoy’s nipples, or his soft cock, though. Quickly, he quelled the desire to know how it was shaped hard, whether Malfoy jutted straight, curved gently, or whether it became red or darker – purple – when Malfoy was aroused.

“Your opinion is of course edifying,” Malfoy said, further interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “I’ve been wearing these for almost a week. I _know_ they haven’t been washed.” 

“I’ll buy you a new wardrobe when we get out of here.”

“I’ve _got_ a wardrobe. I’ve got an extensive, immaculately-tailored wardrobe. It just isn’t here.” 

“Least I could do.”

“If I get jodhpur-thigh...” Malfoy said as he adjusted his clothes.

“If you get what?” Malfoy looked irritated. “I know nothing about horses, Malfoy.”

“Disproportionately huge thighs.” 

“Or riding them,” Harry continued. “Or about being one, for that fact.”

“You’re doing perfectly well.” Malfoy looked at the saddle. It seemed larger to Harry. “My arse is going to be as sore as all hell by the end of the week.”

Harry bit back the retort on his tongue about Malfoy’s arse being sore. “Just tell me what to do. It can’t be much harder than two-person spell-casting.” 

“What?” 

“I had to learn how to cast spells with a partner. Working with you on a hunt can’t be much harder than that. Just a different sort of spell-casting. It’ll take some time to get used to the different body, but I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I’m not going to condemn us both.”

“Just keep that in mind when I’ve worked you all day.” 

“I’ll do whatever I have to do,” Harry promised as Malfoy picked up the saddle and put it on him. “Have you ever done a hunt like this before?”

Malfoy led Harry outside. “I’ve ridden to hounds. I’ve never done so competitively against a demigod.” 

“What are we hunting?”

“I don’t know.” 

Frustrated, Harry said, “Alright,” and hoped it wouldn’t be anything determined to fight back. Avoiding attacks and hunting – Harry didn’t want to think about how complicated that would make things.

***

“Did you know? Or have any idea this might happen when you came with me?”

Malfoy shrugged. “It wasn’t outwith the bounds of possibility.” 

“So why would you do that? I’ve never given you any reason to sacrifice yourself for me.”

When Malfoy moved to mount, Harry thought he might not answer. 

“I made a commitment to doing it. I always make good on my promises.” Quietly, Malfoy added, “Even the bad ones.”

Harry flicked his ears when he felt the pressure on his sides to move; Malfoy apparently hadn’t realised how good his hearing was. Further thoughts on it ended when Malfoy twitched the rein to change Harry’s direction. 

“Let’s see how quickly you can get to that tree line, shall we?”

***

Long weeks in which they had been running themselves ragged had passed. Where Harry felt energised and fit, Draco became like a bar of soap left under flowing water. Pushing, they were always pushing. Some days the wall they had to climb seemed to grow taller, making success feel impossible. Other days, Harry felt confident they had a chance, however small, at getting home. With a goal, they would keep fighting, Harry hoped. If Draco gave up, neither would see their children again, and that saddened Harry most.

Once Draco had decided that he could be confident Harry wasn’t going to run off, he had altered the charms on the bridle, allowing Harry to go further without being jerked back into line. Grateful, Harry spared himself the indignity of potential arousal during Draco’s baths and walked around the strange camp.

When Harry returned, Draco lay in the bath, his head tipped back on the edge, body lax. Time felt differently to Harry now, but he knew Draco had been in the tub far longer than he should have been.

If Draco slid into the water, given Draco’s difficulty waking, Harry wouldn’t be able to do anything. Harry approached the bath.

“Draco.” Harry nuzzled Draco’s cheek. “Wake up.”

“Mmmf.” Draco turned his head and wrinkled his nose, eyes closed.

“Wake up. You’re still in the bath.”

“Mmm.”

Nuzzling Draco again, Harry waited, hoping Draco’d wake. A hand flapped in response.

“You need to get out of the bath,” Harry said firmly.

“Mmmm?” 

Harry sighed, having only had one option left. He neighed loudly.

Draco started awake. “What the—?” 

“You’ve been asleep in the bath for a while. Wake up.” Harry felt bad for waking Draco, knowing he needed the sleep, particularly with Draco’s dazed expression. “I can’t get you out if you decide to drown yourself.” 

Draco went ashen, and Harry knew why. Thoughts of Astoria’s death were always clear in Draco’s expression. Part of Harry envied the depth of feeling, the other part reminded him reasonably that he’d loved Ginny once and now he couldn’t countenance being in the same room with her longer than five minutes before he cravenly escaped. Harry wondered what it must feel like to love someone so deeply that two years after their death their absence left a hole no companionship could fill. He hoped Malfoy wouldn’t always feel that emptiness; no one deserved that. Harry nuzzled Draco again. “Come on. Get out.”

Draco stumbled from the bath, and wrapped up tightly in his blanket before lying down. Harry settled half on the straw and half off to avoid crushing Draco when he lay down. Concerned by Draco’s behaviour, Harry remained silent, thinking. He’d done that a lot in the last few weeks, his mind settling long enough to nap when it was convenient, his thoughts never far from Draco. He’d grown to care for Draco, their silence in the evenings companionable, and their relationship, while not friendship, one of respect. That much was clear from Draco’s end; Harry watched Draco constantly, listening and learning Draco through his silence. It was all Harry had, since most conversations were curtailed by Draco’s fatigue.

The evening had brought worry to the forefront of Harry’s thoughts, and since they had been doing well until three days ago, Harry thought a day of rest was needed. 

Few words cluttered Draco’s interaction with Harry, but Draco’s actions, his bearing and skill spoke of a deeply-feeling man, who had endured a loss Harry couldn’t imagine. One that made Harry want to comfort. Sometimes Draco seemed fragile, then he’d swallow his hurt, and Harry would feel weak in comparison.

Harry found it odd and pleasing that they worked well together, trust as horse and rider having solidified over the weeks. Now Harry moved with Draco, rather than waiting for a command. After throwing Draco more than three times, Harry had endeavoured to keep Draco safe, forcing his own doubt and fear away, knowing it would impede progress. Having to rely on each other had been good for them, had taught them to look beyond their memories and see each other for who they were as adults, not who they had been as adolescents. Draco treated Harry like a horse, though, never calling him anything, even though Harry had begun calling Draco by his given name. Knowing it likely to be futile, Harry hadn’t pressed for change. Wanting it hadn’t dissipated. Wanting a lot of things hadn’t dissipated, once Harry thought about it; as he learned more about Draco, through what wasn’t said, he found real attraction to the man, as much as the physical presence, which didn’t make things easier.

“I wish I was human,” Harry said wistfully.

“You will be. Soon.”

“Not soon enough, though,” Harry reRoned, omitting his reasons.

Draco gave a tired sigh. “With all the will in the world, I can’t move time faster for you. And we need these remaining months, anyway.”

“I know,” Harry huffed, feeling other things were more important: Draco’s state of mind. “Get some rest. You need it.”

A vague, acquiescent hum followed. Harry wondered what had happened to the Draco who had chatted amicably with him at the outset, and if his comment, while made in humour, had cut that deep. A reminder of what Draco had lost haunting him, Harry mused.

“Good night, Draco.”

His back pressed tightly against Harry, tremors moving along Harry’s spine, Draco mumbled something resembling reciprocation, and as he lay awake, Harry made a decision to push for a break from training for the following day. Harry didn’t need it as much, but Draco did.

***

Morning was cool, but Draco felt warm against Harry, alleviating worry. Draco had taken to clinging to Harry in the night, his soft snores and steady breaths calming to Harry’s thoughts. So much time to think. Sometimes he wanted to be the horse fully, needing reprieve from worry, attraction, and affection.

After breakfast, before Draco could saddle him, Harry said, “Can we take a break today? You’re knackered, and we aren’t going to win if we’re both so tired we can’t walk.”  
Draco looked like a sheet of parchment after a Severing Charm. “The Lord of the Chase has been doing this for countless centuries,” he pointed out, but Harry could see Draco realised how flimsy his own argument was.

“I’ve thrown you twice in three days. We’re both tired. And I’m sure even the Lord of the Chase stops to do normal things. Whatever that might be.” 

“This _is_ normal to him. But you’re right. I was useless to you yesterday.” 

Refraining from pointing out that Draco’s ribs looked more like shadows than flesh, Harry nuzzled Draco’s neck gently. “We’ll go back to it tomorrow. Flat-out running and all.”

Draco laughed. “Flat-out running is what I’ve been trying to get you not to do,” he said.

“Oh, well... okay, we’ll go back to trying to break me of that tomorrow.”

A rarely-seen smile curved Draco’s lips. “You’ll be fitter than Aurors half your age when you go back to the service, you realise.” 

“I’ll probably have, what’d you call it, jodhpur-thigh.”

Draco laughed again. “I doubt it. But you’ll be in excellent condition,” he said, looking Harry over, nodding firmly. “There’s not an ounce of spare flesh on you; you’re a fine, healthy animal.” Whatever form, the ego-stroke made Harry happy; it was disappointing they were directed at Harry the horse and not Harry the man, though. “You ought to go for a canter today, though. You’ll get itchy feet if you don’t.” 

“Let’s do it,” Harry said, making a circle to the opening of their tent. Draco followed, bypassing saddle, reins and noseband. Confused, Harry asked, “Why aren’t you getting the usual stuff?”

Draco glanced at Harry. “Do you really want it?” 

“S’ppose not.” The horse in him twitched at the change in routine. It took Harry a moment to shove it aside, then he noticed Draco standing on a tree stump, waiting. Knowing Draco wanted to mount, Harry approached and stopped beside his rider.

Draco slid onto Harry bareback, gathering up a handful of Harry’s mane.

“Don’t expect me to do this when I’m a man again,” Harry said, amused.

“When you’re human, you wouldn’t be able to carry me.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Harry promised, feeling Draco squeeze his ribs. Harry wondered if Draco didn’t understand him, or was actively avoiding the topic.

Setting off at a trot, Harry tried to get used to the way Draco felt mounted without the saddle. Draco’s weight rested differently, and he gripped more – much more.

“That’s the worst possible pace for a bareback rider who happens to be male, you know,” Draco said. Harry slowed to a walk, feeling the tension above him release. “Walking and cantering are best.”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” Harry said, realising. An affectionate slap landed on his neck, accompanied by laugher, as Harry led them into the open. “Where shall we go? That ridge you like taking me through my paces on? The water?”

“Wherever you fancy.” 

The water had been a favourite of Harry’s, so he set off at a reasonable pace, keeping his attention fixed on Draco’s movements and their surroundings. Harry stopped at a tree near the water and began grazing. He’d never eaten so much in his life, his body constantly needing sustenance. Too much of his human side came through, disliking the taste of grass, oats, and hay, but Harry didn’t complain; nothing could be done for it. Time would tell where they ended up, and he hoped fervently it was home.

As he grazed, Harry felt Draco’s weight shift, and a hand further down his back. He looked up to see Draco leaning, looking at the grey sky, his expression wan, the lines of laughter eaten by silence.

“How did you know how to fix my eyes?” Harry asked, hoping he could get to know Draco, see if his affection was misplaced. They trusted each other, but Harry didn’t want to fall for a man who had no interest in him. If Draco became a friend, Harry thought he could keep his emotional distance; but he held hope that there would be more.

“Hmm?” 

Harry repeated his question.

“Oh... well, it’s not all that complicated a spell.” 

“Well, no, but it’s not exactly common knowledge, either.”

“I know a lot of out-of-the-way things,” Draco said vaguely.

“So you can fix vision, but you can’t heal the bruises on your ribs?” Harry asked.

Draco shifted. “Yes.”

Between patches of grass, Harry talked Draco through a spell to heal bruises that he’d used many times since he’d been an Auror. The incantation followed, Draco apparently satisfied with the results. Later, Harry could see how well it had served. Draco had begun to lose weight, looking like the hay Harry ate; if Harry threw Draco much more, Draco would have no cushioning, and bruises would be a small problem in comparison. For now, Harry was curious about Draco knowing how to fix vision, but not contusions. After Harry had pushed the subject, Draco finally grew irritated.

“Just _practice_ , Potter. Just... test-casting. You must have used the simulacra as an Auror,” Draco said, refusing to disclose why he knew that spell. It wasn’t lack of trust on Harry’s part; he just thought it an odd spell to know.

“Of course.” Harry paused, felt Draco relax, and said, “I was glad to see your hairline back to normal. Did Scorpius do that?” 

Draco snorted. “Yes. The little devil slipped me an ageing potion.” Laughter erupted through Harry, still a sound that took some adjustment to hear. “He’ll be trying to put Weasley out of business before he’s much older.” There was no malice in the tone.

“He likes pranks?” Harry asked, interested.

“His principal form of entertainment. If he’d just put the energy that he pours into making breakfast at home an exciting adventure into his schoolwork...” Draco laughed wryly.

“He cooks? And you let him?” Harry was surprised, old assumptions colouring his image of the Malfoy family: servants bringing every meal, or laying it on the dining-table magically. Cooking seemed a Muggle pastime, not a wizard’s, and definitely not one for the son of a Malfoy.

“I was thinking more of his tendency to booby-trap the dishes, but yes, he does. Why would I stop him? He had the interest, and it very seldom hurts anyone.” Draco paused, considering. “And when it does, it’s usually me.”

“But you don’t mind.”

Draco sat up. “Why would I mind? It’s not as if he’s secretly trying to poison the water supply.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “You know, when this is over, if you want, I can introduce him to George.”

Silence hung heavy, and Harry wondered if he’d said something to offend Draco. Turning his head, he found an appalled expression on Draco’s face.

“I doubt the world is ready for that,” he said at length in the meditative tone of a man who could foresee disaster. “Professor Flitwick is trying very hard to induce him to take an interest in potions or charms.” 

“Flitwick. He’s a Ravenclaw.”

Draco snorted. “Yes, Potter. Only one person in this conversation has spawned a Slytherin. And I understand that Professor Snape’s portrait was appalled to find James Potter in his common room.” 

Laughing, Harry said, “At least he’s nothing like his grandfather.”

“I will admit to being surprised that none of yours followed you through Gryffindor.” 

“I’m glad, actually.” A Slytherin was enough to handle. Albus had been Sorted into Hufflepuff, Lily into Ravenclaw; not that Albus couldn’t have gone to Slytherin, too. He might have looked like Harry, but he didn’t act like Harry; Albus had got Ginny’s mind, and none of Harry’s single-mindedness unless it revolved around a broom. James lacked any sense of self-preservation whatever, but he was focussed and ambitious in a way Harry had never been. Sometimes Harry wondered if that was due to Harry never being around. But it hadn’t been Harry’s fault. Ginny had kept the children, promising to let him see them whenever he wanted to avoid any more press. She’d tried to keep their divorce amicable, but once she had got it in her head that Harry didn’t love her, she’d grown bitter for the time she’d lost playing Quidditch, for having children with a ‘selfish wanker’. Ron had been right when he’d told Harry they should have never married. Harry had been angry at the time, trying to salvage some relationship with Ginny so he could see the kids more than at the weekends, but after Harry had gone through a string of lovers, she’d protectively kept Harry from seeing them more than holidays and a few weeks in summer. When they’d gone to Hogwarts, she’d tightened her hold even more, always decrying Harry’s instability as a parent, as though sex affected his children and having lovers, rather than a steady partner, diminished his ability to care for and about them. Draco shifted again, reminding Harry he was there, and Harry shoved aside the bitterness. “They got their mum’s sense,” he said, trying to remember she had a good head when she wasn’t angry. Same as him. Draco hummed. “Even if she gave them awful names,” Harry added as Draco stretched out on Harry’s back, his feet resting on Harry’s rump.

Draco hummed again. “Yes, I heard about that. I suppose I can see it.” He gave a short laugh and continued, “Astoria and I never even considered calling him anything else.” 

“That’s probably a good thing. Scorpius suits him.”

“That was a nod to my mother.” 

“Oh?” Harry asked, intrigued. 

“Mmm. She always wanted more than one. My brother was to have been Draco.” Draco trailed his fingers along Harry’s side absently. “We wanted more,” he said in a heavy tone of ghosts and shadows.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco sighed, and Harry wished he could nuzzle him, or return the gentle touches along his ribs. “It happens. Something in the Malfoy line, perhaps. Was it chance that you settled on three?” 

“Er, we didn’t really plan on Lily. Things were already falling apart by then. I mean, I wanted... but she left,” Harry said, aware of Draco’s hand firmly pressing on his side, perhaps in sympathy. “You’re the only person I’ve slept with for longer than a couple of weeks since Gin,” Harry admitted.

Draco snorted. “Please don’t say that in company, Potter. The notion of sleeping with a horse...” He shuddered.

“I still feel like me, mostly. Apart from being unable to wank or wash myself...”

“Trust me when I assure you that you are indeed very definitely a horse.” 

“I know.”

“You’re a very _good_ horse,” Draco added, as if in mitigation. 

“With a pretty face. I remember.”

“You needn’t dwell on that,” Draco said, and Harry stopped, wondering what Draco meant.

“I haven’t got the scar, have I?”

“No, you haven’t. At least, if you have, it’s under the hair.” 

“Good.”

“I’ll have a look, if you like,” Draco offered. 

“No. It’s nice for it not to be there for once. There’re only so many Skin-Stretching Charms. Made undercover work difficult. ’Bout the only thing that ever got rid of it properly was Polyjuice. And I don’t like becoming other people.”

Draco hummed. “I’ve never tried.” 

“I thought I’d be done with it in the second year,” Harry said, receiving no comment. After a long silence, he asked, “When did you meet Venetia?”

“A year or so after I was released from Azkaban. She’d been to Beauxbatons. She was younger,” Draco answered. Harry hummed, grazing still, hoping Draco would continue without prompt. “One of those godawful Christmas parties one has to attend. I slipped out for some fresh air, and she was there on the terrace with the younger Wroxton son; she clearly wasn’t happy, so... She had no idea who or what I was,” Draco said, the wistful note in his tone again, and Harry was surprised to find himself envious and saddened. 

“That must have been nice.”

“It was,” Draco said.

“You’re lucky.”

“I was,” Draco agreed. “I wish you could have known her. I think she would have liked you.”  
Pleased, but surprised, Harry refrained from commenting. Guilt Rachel up, then settled as though the heat from a hob had been lowered. At length, Harry said, “Thanks.”

The strokes against Harry’s flank were steady, comforting, but Harry felt Draco was mentally walking around in fog, unable to see the definition of life around him, the precipitation blurring what he had, and shrouding Draco in what he’d lost. Unexpectedly caught by how much that hurt, Harry suggested Draco let him have his run; alone, Harry could sort his thoughts, shift his feelings to something appropriate. Sympathy was appropriate, but longing to make Draco know happiness wasn’t, not when Harry had proof Draco’s predilections excluded his own sex. 

Harry was in trouble.

After a long run, when Harry exhausted himself, he went to the water and plunged in without caring how cold it was; he needed to get the sweat off, stop the itching and discomfort. Draco dried him with a charm, and they headed back, Harry having a feeling his troubles weren’t going to ease as he hoped. Offhandedly, Draco complimented Harry’s gait, expressing he only knew the horse when Harry voiced his amusement with being complimented on his horse-form’s features, and not his own.

 

A psychosomatic knot settled in Harry’s gut at the realisation Draco didn’t see Harry and the horse as the same. It shouldn’t have bothered Harry, but it did, and only got worse as the silence fell when they returned to the pavilion and Harry watched Draco’s moods shift like wind-swept leaves. Thoughtfulness, regret, sorrow, and a wistful air that chilled Harry lingered until Draco bathed and lay down.

If only someone else had been qualified to assist – if Draco hadn’t been the local historian fluent in Middle English; if Draco hadn’t been an excellent horseman – Harry wouldn’t feel a sinking sense of helplessness, one unsuited to his need to comfort and give the feelings he had in abundance. It felt unsatisfactory that he couldn’t offer, settling for nuzzling Draco when what he wanted was to hold; bring light through the clouds Draco surrounded himself with. Protect so Draco didn’t have to.

“You haven’t been close to anyone since she died, have you?” Harry asked from his oats.

Draco started. “What?” Harry repeated his question, waiting patiently for an answer. “Oh. No. No, I haven’t,” Draco said, frowning.

“Why not?”

Draco’s frown deepened. “What do you mean, why not?” 

“You haven’t thought about having a... companion, or anything?”

“‘Companion’?” Draco asked as though the thought was a foul smell.

“Well, yeah; someone to spend time with to keep the loneliness from killing you.”

“I’m not lonely.” Draco rolled, turning his back to Harry.

Harry approached, nuzzling Draco’s side gently. “It’s okay to be.”

“I’m sure it is,” Draco said, a hostile edge to the tone.

Aware he had reached Draco’s limit, Harry backed away, returned to his food and water, watching Draco. In between naps, he caught Draco rolling over, reaching for an absent presence. Heart won over sense, and Harry nuzzled Draco’s hand, watching him gravitate closer.

Gently, Harry nudged Draco, trying to get him to budge so he could lie down, give what Draco seemed to need. Many mumbles later, Draco shifted, and Harry settled mostly on the ground, feeling the familiar weight of Draco’s arm around his neck.

He closed his eyes and imagined Draco’s breath across his neck, the hairs lifted, ticking him in sleep, and imagined being human. Where Draco knew exactly who he held, accepting it without reservation.

***

Draco trembled in his sleep, muttering indistinctly and pulling Harry’s mane. Harry tried to wake him, to no avail, opting to neigh, since nuzzling and nudging hadn’t roused him. The sound frightened Draco enough for his eyes to snap opened. Panting, Draco flopped onto his back, his arm rolling across his eyes. Gently, Harry nuzzled Draco’s head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“I don’t sleep when you do,” Harry reassured him.

Draco nodded as Harry settled again, blinking at the ceiling.

“Alright?” Harry asked.

With a shuddery breath, Draco said, “I…” and shook his head. “I’m not a natural hunter.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling guilty for having suggested hunting, despite the necessity to learn to work together. Harry hadn’t known Draco would react poorly; he hadn’t been much better, the weight of the deer on his back, and the smell of blood still heavy in his nostrils. Death had never been easy for Harry, and seeing Draco fraught from nightmares, he wanted to wrap Draco in his arms, pull Draco close, comfort the remaining sting like cool water. “We’re not going to have to kill whatever it is we hunt for our freedom, are we?”

Draco rolled and put his face in Harry’s mane again, mumbling vaguely that he hoped not. 

“I didn’t like it, either.”

“You didn’t have to kill it,” Draco said, the words muffled by Harry’s mane.

“I’m not allowed to feel sympathy for you having to?” Harry asked, slight irritation creeping into his tone.

A mumble came as Draco wrapped his arm around Harry’s neck, and it wasn’t long before Draco was asleep again, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

Time was running out, and the strain starting to show. Draco slept deeply every night, barely eating. Every effort went into providing Harry with proper grooming, food, water, and training. But Draco spared nothing for himself, picking disinterestedly at his food, and withdrawing when Harry didn’t encourage conversation. The day in the field felt like it had happened weeks ago, rather than days; but Harry couldn’t be sure. His sense of time passing was distorted; felt like eternity stretching out. It wasn’t difficult to recognise what he was feeling for Draco; he’d felt something weaker, but similar, for Ginny ages ago. No one else had managed to flow into Harry so easily.

Thinking. It was all Harry had. He couldn’t shake the growing affection and desire, and he was able to rest intermittently since Draco slept deeply; restfully, Harry hoped. 

During breakfast, Harry asked, “Why would you give up Draco?”

“What?” 

“This whole thing; if we don’t win, you’re giving up Draco. Why?”

“I didn’t actually come here with the intention of staying,” Draco said.

“Mm. S’ppose not.”

“And I will admit to not having appreciated the likelihood of this sort of challenge.” 

“Ah. Well, good. ’Cause I hadn’t, either. In fact, I was quite ignorant until you put the bridle on me.”

“You were just a horse, then. Now you’re a horse with human intelligence.” 

He huffed, irritated with Draco for his insensitivity. “I’m not just a horse. I’m Harry James Potter.” 

“And a horse,” Draco pointed out.

“I don’t think horses feel compassion, or desire, or loneliness the way I do, thanks,” Harry snapped. 

“You don’t know that. Anyway, I didn’t say you’re just a horse. I said you were just a horse.” 

Harry sighed heavily, suggesting they get started; he didn’t know if he’d keep his tongue in check much longer.

***

That evening, Draco decided Harry needed a thorough grooming. Harry, disagreeing, posed and pranced around their tent. Sorely-missed laughter sprang from Draco, and Harry stopped, his chest puffed out, head high, watching Draco’s affectionate expression with happiness. Their training that day had been good at keeping Harry focussed, chasing away his earlier irritation.

“Yes, Harry, we all know you’re a fine, handsome brute.” 

Harry snorted. “Brute? I’m not a brute. I’m... suave.”

Draco laughed. “Sauvage, maybe.” 

“You just don’t know a good man when you see him,” Harry teased.

An affectionate tug of Harry’s ear, and Draco said, “I hate to remind you of this...” 

“Yeah, I know: I’m a bloody horse.”

Laughing again, Draco patted Harry’s shoulder. “A very fine horse.” 

“Not so fine a man,” Harry reflected.

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“I’m really not much different. It’s the body, you know. Bit cuddlier, maybe.”

Draco shrugged and continued brushing Harry. “I’d be surprised to find that you roll in the mud this much as a human. Oh, and manure, too, this time, apparently.” 

“No, just in the sack,” Harry said dryly.

Draco snorted, but there was an edge if disapproval that ignited Harry’s earlier irritation like striking a matchstick. 

“Oh, don’t judge me, Malfoy. Bloody hell. The Prophet prints a load of rubbish and everyone reads it and decides they know what sort of man I am. It’s a load of bollocks. I like sex; I’m not ashamed of that. The other stuff – there hadn’t been anyone since Ginny. Or before.”

“It’s none of my business.” 

“Fine.” Harry flicked his tail, seething with indignation. A simple noise of judgment and disapproval from Draco, when Draco was the one person Harry wanted acceptance from, made anger rise, tip the scales of sense into unreasonable. Ignoring Draco’s opinion wasn’t easy; Harry cared too much, and knew if he didn’t leave, he’d inflict a verbal wound that no apology could heal, irreparably damage their relationship; fragile as it was. “I’m going outside.” 

“I haven’t finished,” Draco said.

“Well, hurry up. I didn’t ask you to make me look like a poncy horse. It’s not my fault my mane keeps hitting you in the face.” The prospect of Draco ripping the hair out by the root hadn’t been pleasing, but agreeing to having his mane plaited now irritated him beyond comprehension. Draco’s disapproval stung.

“There is no power in this world that could make you look poncy.”

Harry snorted derisively. “Plaits. It’s not a power. I plaited my daughter’s hair.”

Draco took a measured breath and stepped back while drawing his wand. The plaits released, and Draco looked at Harry. “Happy?” 

Harry looked up, angered and saddened by Draco’s reaction. He stamped the ground, kicking up dirt as he left the tent. Run – he needed to run. Anything to get away and keep from upsetting the balance. Anything to hold the illusion that Draco returned Harry’s affection. Longing for something out of reach itched, and no matter how much he rolled in the dirt, grass, or water, the feeling didn’t dissipate. 

Time flew by in the vortex of Harry’s emotions. Eventually he tired himself enough to return to the tent, finding Draco with the saddle dismantled, slowly piecing it back together. Harry didn’t speak with his anger still perched on his tongue like a bird of prey ready to take flight. 

Thirsty and hungry, Harry drank deeply, ate, and napped in the corner, as far from Draco as he could stand to be.

Anger and longing didn’t go well together: longing fed anger, and anger made longing for peace stronger; and neither relented, only increasing, each trying to supplant the other. Harry supposed it was a good thing he tried to maintain the balance of emotions.

Eventually Draco disrobed and sank into the bath while Harry watched, his thoughts obfuscated by irritation. Harry had been able to read Draco so far, but it seemed they’d reached a point where easy openness was no longer an option, and it only made Harry worry more. He wasn’t in the habit of falling in love every day, and recognising it and letting himself feel it made him uneasy, particularly after Draco’s reaction. 

Draco sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I have no right to judge you of all people.”

Unsure what that meant, Harry sighed, too. He’d never been good with apologies; accepting or giving them. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I just don’t... I can’t imagine... sleeping with someone I didn’t...” Draco gestured vaguely. 

“We’re all looking for the same thing: some people get it; some people don’t. You did,” Harry said, as if that explained everything. Jealousy and envy spun in Harry’s thoughts, coupling with longing and the realisation that what he’d been looking for seemed to be before him. “I’m not good at relationships, so I don’t have them. Most people can’t stand me being an Auror. Others think I’m something I’m not. They want a piece of the Boy-Who-Lived, not Harry Potter. Even Ginny. When we got divorced, Ron told me how stupid it was for us to have got married in the first place. Made me wish he’d said something sooner.” Harry stopped, attempting to rein in his mouth. “We were too young… and it happened so fast. It’s easier to have affairs sometimes, even if something’s missing.” He took a breath and paused. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want what’s missing,” he finished wistfully. 

After a meditative silence, Draco said, “I couldn’t do that.” 

“No one’s asking you to.”

Draco shook himself slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply...” 

“It’s alright. Like I said: you were lucky,” Harry said, going to drink more water. “And you deserved it. I envy you that.”

Draco snorted faintly. “I think few people would accept that I deserved it but you didn’t.” 

“What few people think doesn’t matter. I made my choices because they were easy.” A sound of incredulity followed, so Harry continued, “What? It’s the truth. Don’t get me wRong, I loved Ginny; and I would have kept loving her, even though I wasn’t happy. But it wasn’t enough for either of us. I don’t think I loved her as much as you did – do – Astoria.”

Closing his eyes, Draco admitted, “She meant the world to me.” 

It was nice to hear it, but Harry didn’t need to; he’d listened carefully when Draco had spoken about Astoria. Draco’s loneliness was an ink stain on white robes.

Deciding to comfort the only way he could, Harry approached and nuzzled Draco’s face, felt the light response of Draco’s touch.

“She deserved better,” Draco said.

“She must not have thought so.”

“She didn’t.” 

“She must have thought you were the best.”

Shaking his head, eyes still closed, Draco explained, “She knew I wasn’t. She knew all along, but... it didn’t matter. She chose me in the teeth of her family’s objections. She told her father that he could be civil and accept it with good grace, or he could say goodbye to her forever.” 

“Then you deserved her,” Harry said. “Anyone willing to give up their family... A man is only as big as his actions, Draco. You must have shown her something incredibly worthwhile, even if you couldn’t see it.”

“I can’t imagine what.” Draco’s hand continued stroking Harry’s face. 

Thinking of what Draco had shown him, Harry said, “Happiness. Love. Compassion. Honesty. Who knows.”

Unexpectedly, Draco leaned his head against Harry’s muzzle. 

“I’m sure it was worth it,” Harry reassured Draco. 

“I think she thought it was. I hope so, at least.” 

“Well, I’ve only been around you a few weeks and I think it is.”

Pulling away, Draco looked at Harry oddly. “You haven’t been eating the blue flowers, have you?” 

“Hardly. Are you so surprised I see something worthwhile, too?”

A hum of approval rose in Harry’s throat as Draco shrugged and returned to the previous position. Harry nuzzled Draco again, wishing he had hands – not the intangible memory in his dreams. Just to reach for Draco and ease some of the pain – his own as much as Draco’s.

“You make a wonderful horse,” Draco said sleepily. 

“I shall be remembered for being a great horse,” Harry said, amused. “I don’t expect anything, you know, but I wouldn’t mind knowing you when this is over.”

“Mmm, yes,” Draco agreed, visibly dozing. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Harry admonished. 

Draco laughed drowsily. 

“Come on. I’ll lie with you. You don’t sleep well if I’m not there.”

“Mmm. Got used to sleeping with Astoria.” 

“Well, she was your wife,” Harry pointed out. Draco hummed, but showed no sign of movement. “Mm. Up you go.”

When Draco opened his eyes, Harry walked to the pile of hay and settled, waiting. Draco stumbled across to Harry, lying down. Not long after he’d pulled the blankets around himself, his arm draped over Harry’s neck, Draco was asleep, leaving Harry to ponder Draco’s reaction to Harry’s assurances that he deserved exactly what he’d got with Venetia.

***

Mid-day felt heavy, the heat unusually uncomfortable to Harry as he cantered through thick underbrush. For days, Draco had been withdrawn, his replies when Harry attempted conversation short and often strained. It shouldn’t have been a surprise: even Harry was beginning to feel the emotional pull of the situation. He’d missed Lily’s twelfth birthday, and would no doubt have a Howler waiting for him at Grimmauld Place from Ginny.

Sighing, Harry stifled the urge to talk. Draco shifted with Harry, maintaining silence. Not one correction had come, no chastisement for Harry’s bad habits as a horse. 

Whatever weight Draco carried was heavier than Harry’s. Again, helplessness cocooned Harry. If he’d been a man, he could have offered more than a nuzzle and silence—

No weight, apart from the saddle rested on Harry’s back. Leaves and grass shuddered with Draco’s impact. The scent of blood stung the air. Harry heard it before he realised what was happening, his head whipping around. “Draco!”

Harry made a circle, stopping beside Draco’s unconscious form. A heap of limbs and loose robe lay before Harry. His chest felt like a drum rested inside, being pounded constantly. No! his mind screamed. If he lost Draco now, Harry didn’t know what he’d do. No movement, no sign of breath, shown from Draco. Too many sounds cluttered Harry’s hearing, nothing from Draco. Draco: all that was important – Harry’s only salvation; hope of redemption from a life that felt no deeper than a plate, no more solid than breath. 

Lowering his head, Harry nuzzled Draco. “Draco, wake up.” No movement. Harry nudged, hard. “Draco! Wake up!” Harry nudged again, harder. 

Slowly, Draco stirred with a soft groan. Awash in relief, Harry said, “Wake up. Come on; we’re going back.”

Draco blinked as Harry lowered himself to the ground.

“Grab on. I’ll get us back.”

Like a puppet having its strings untangled, Draco tried to pull himself together. One arm remained close to his body.

“There you go. You can do it,” Harry urged softly.

Draco rolled to his knees, but failed to get to his feet. 

“Just wrap your leg round me. I’ll go slowly. Hold the reins.”

Distress seeped from Draco.

“Come on, Draco. We need to get back. I know a few Healing spells... Not many, but it should help you.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen. I don’t—” Draco lurched, managing to sit up straight.

“You’re not bloody eating,” Harry chastised, his own distress like summer rain.

“I’m too heavy.” 

“Bollocks. Get up here. You’re not too heavy. I’m fast. But speed isn’t going to be the only thing. It’ll be my hearing and your brain. Now, come on. Your wand isn’t broken, is it?”

A pin-scratch appeared between Draco’s brows, his mouth tight with pain as he checked his wand. “No,” he confirmed.

“Good. Anything broken?” Harry asked.

“Here,” Draco said, gesturing at the arm he held close to his body.

“Just hold on. I’ll go slowly. I know a few things.”

Finally, Draco managed to get into the saddle, but not without obvious discomfort. As much as Harry wanted to run, he couldn’t. 

“Use a Freezing Charm on that part of your robe. Should help keep the swelling down,” Harry directed, feeling as though his body moved in slow motion. An incantation followed, a hiss coming from Draco.

“Why the hell aren’t you eating?” Harry demanded. “Are you throwing it away when I’m asleep?”

“It’s not nice. And I’m heavy.” 

“You’re not _heavy_. If you kill yourself, there will be no hunt. No chance. I’m supposed to be the bloody idiot, not you!” 

Draco muttered, and Harry didn’t respond, needing his concentration for the return trip. Anger, relief, distress – Harry couldn’t keep his emotions dammed; they Rachel over sense, but the need to keep Draco safe stilled his tongue.

Inside the tent, Harry settled in the hay directly, watching Draco slither from his back, looking like hell. 

“Can you get your robe off?” Harry asked.

Using a spell, Draco removed his robe. His shoulder sagged, appearing uncomfortable. Harry was grateful it was a frequent field injury, or else he’d never know the appropriate spell. He directed Draco through the wand movements and incantation, waiting.

When Draco was satisfied, he cast, his face going a peculiar colour.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.

“I don’t think that was quite right,” Draco replied.

“I don’t know any diagnostic spells; just ones to mend common injuries: noses, wrists, fingers, collarbones – the rest go to St Mungo’s.”

Draco probed his collarbone. “I’m not good at these charms,” he said.

“Fuck! Stay here,” Harry ordered, rising. If the spell hadn’t worked, he’d need help. From somewhere, someone – anything. Need surged insistently, a heavy tap on already-frayed nerves. Draco was the key to this, to their survival, the only thing keeping Harry sane. Leaving the tent behind, Harry circled the ghostly camp, reminded of the Headless Hunt by the indistinct horses and riders, a chill of apprehension creeping down his spine. He called out, but none answered his plea for help, turning their backs as though pressed by stiff wind. 

Helpless, Harry returned, muttering wrathfully about useless ghosts. Inside the tent, Draco sat, rotating his shoulder carefully. No signs of distress or discomfort in Draco’s expression. Harry stopped.

“Alright?”

Nodding sheepishly, Draco replied, “Yes, I think so. Thank you. I’m not... used to being injured any more.” 

Harry grunted. “Eat.” Draco’s look of distaste did nothing to sway Harry’s opinion that Draco needed to eat. “You need to. And rest. Christ, you’re worse than I am.” Draco blinked. “We’re not going to get anything done if you keep on like this.”

“I’m alright,” Draco insisted.

“You’re not! You look like snow. Which is not an improvement.”

Offence mattered little to Harry. They’d shared honesty the last few months; ceasing in the of face of Draco’s petulance wouldn’t tame Harry’s worry, only make it worse.

“Just because we don’t all tan like the better class of Greek god—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Draco! That’s got nothing to do with it! You’re obviously not well. You’re pale - more so than usual. If you want to kill yourself and me, then go ahead and stop eating.”

Red didn’t suit Draco’s complexion, but it flared on his face and neck. “I just want you to have the best odds you can!” 

“This isn’t just about me!” Harry shouted.

“All I have to do is stick on! You’re the one who has to charge around the countryside!”

 

“And I did that just fine when you weighed a stone more!” Harry pointed out. Draco’s inability to make eye contact said more than his weak arguments. “I don’t expect you to tell me what the real problem is, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“I don’t like the food, anyway. I don’t like it here.” 

“You don’t have to like it. But if you eat it and stay healthy, we stand a chance of getting the hell out of here! Horses shouldn’t want meat, but I do. Oats do not taste good. Hay does not taste good. I want bloody wine and Firewhisky and lamb chops and treacle tart. But I haven’t got that.”

“There’s not much I can do about it! I’m doing the best I can for you!” 

“Not by killing yourself.”

“You’re the one who blew the stupid horn!” 

“And I didn’t ask you to help me. You did – for whatever reason.”

Something else was wrong, if Draco’s miserable expression had anything to say, and Harry hated not knowing what. They’d been doing so well, and now everything became a row, making things harder than they had to be. Harry had tried to be patient, keep their relationship neutral. On the face of things, Draco was lonely and miserable, but there was nothing Harry could do; he couldn’t make time speed up, couldn’t give Draco what he needed, and it hurt. If… if Harry hadn’t taken that stupid horn, hadn’t gone with Ron but gone to see James and Al in Hogsmeade instead – he wouldn’t be with Malfoy, wouldn’t love him beyond sense, and wouldn’t be watching Draco treat himself like a whipping post for a clinging phantom Harry lacked the power to chase away. It was safe in his corner, so Harry remained still, watching Draco.

“I don’t know what you want. But you sure as hell aren’t living by dying. I have no plans on giving up. I want to see my kids again. I want to know what touching another bloody person feels like again. If you don’t, then that’s disappointing. But don’t bloody well give me hope and take it away.”

“That’s unjust, and you know it.” 

“It’s what it looks like to me.”

“And your perceptions are infallible, aren’t they? Just like they always have been.” 

“No. They’re not; I was wrong about you. I was wrong about Ginny. I was wrong about Snape, Dumbledore. We all have our damned ghosts. But I don’t give a damn about yours; that’s the difference.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m going to sleep. And then I’ll choke down what passes for food in this hellhole.” 

Draco stalked to his bed and lay down. He was clearly miserable, but Harry no idea why, apart from what Draco had said, and even that sounded flimsy. Asking was out of the question, so Harry left the tent again, needing to run off his frustration.

 

When Harry returned, tired, still unenlightened, Draco appeared to be sleeping. On the ground, a bowl – which Harry sniffed – of Firewhisky sat. Grateful, he drank his water, then slurped at the bowl. What had once been familiar now tasted old and disturbing, but he drank it anyway, Draco’s effort meaning more than any promise.

Harry wanted to understand the gesture, but no answer came from staring at Draco’s body or his hair – which Harry wanted to move from his eyes – or stop the desire to kiss and hold. Sighing, Harry lay on the ground, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually Draco moved closer, wrapping his arm around Harry. 

Nighttime had never felt so long, the steady breaths and mumbles disconcerting behind Harry. His world felt off balance, more than previously. Being a horse was nothing compared to loving someone who wouldn’t – or couldn’t – love Harry in return. Harry had thought it bad after Ginny, but the strain of circumstances was pale in comparison. Draco had become everything, and losing him wasn’t a thought Harry could bear. Tension held him prisoner at the realisation he could lose Draco anyway.

The will to fight remained.

During the night, Harry had decided working the next day wouldn’t accomplish anything, so after Draco had forced down breakfast, Harry announced, “We’re not riding today.”

“Really.” 

“No. You need to rest. We’ve been pushing too much. We could make a mistake.”

“Fine.” 

Silence settled heavily again. Harry eventually tried to call a truce. “Thanks for the Firewhisky.”

Draco nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t have any more. I don’t generally carry a great deal, and it can only be duplicated up to a point.” 

“It’s the thought that counts,” Harry reassured him.

Draco nodded again, and Harry nuzzled gently. “Not much longer,” Harry said.

“I know.” He didn’t pull away, but Draco sounded troubled.

“You don’t owe me anything, but I’ll listen...” Harry offered.

“What?” Draco asked in incomprehension.

“If you... need to talk about something. Anything. I’ll listen.”

“I just want to go home.” 

What had started as a reasonable conversation, quickly sent Harry running again. Only a week remained before the hunt, and Harry wanted the ease from previous weeks back; wanted to talk about their children and laugh again, not fight. Berating himself helped little, so Harry ran and ran and ran. Grass, leaves, flowers, they didn’t argue, or dismiss his feelings; they existed, didn’t ask him to change to suit them, and every rough beat of his hooves against the ground offered reprieve; too short sometimes. Mentioning sending a Patronus hadn’t been a means to mock Draco, or watch him fail, but Draco had taken Harry’s attempted assistance as such, glowering and partly smug for knowing he’d fail and give himself a nosebleed he had refused to heal.

Bored, frustrated, and at the end of his rope, ready to let go and have fate swallow him, Harry returned to their tent. Like the previous evening, there was a bowl on the ground, this time filled with wine. Surprised, and confused, after Harry had drunk his water and eaten, he looked at Draco and said, “This isn’t a complaint, honestly, and I appreciate it, but it’s... this, the Firewhisky... why?”

“You said you wanted it,” Draco said blankly.

“I meant in general, not now. I’m capable of waiting a few more days,” Harry said, slurping more water.

“And I was capable of ensuring that you didn’t have to.” 

Harry sighed. “To be honest, it’s confusing, alright? I’ve unfortunately grown more attached to you than I probably should have through this, and I’m fairly certain that the extent of your feelings ends with me being a decent horse. So while I appreciate it, please... you don’t have to do it.” Harry was just a horse in Draco’s mind, not a person; he couldn’t understand the gesture with that knowledge. If Draco felt more, why didn’t he say something instead of brooding? 

Metal clattered against metal as Draco dropped his spoon; he glared at Harry. “I know I don’t _have_ to do it. I chose to. I don’t see what’s confusing about it. You said you wanted it, I could make it happen, so I did. I was just trying to... to do something _nice_ for you, because you’re stuck as a bloody _horse_ for the time being and that can’t be easy, and just looking after you only seems to annoy you, so I don’t see what the hell else I can do.” He scowled. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed to be a half-decent bloke. Just because you hated me at school and ignored me as soon as we were out of the place, I don’t see why I should genuinely lose credentials of humanity.” Harry sighed, wondering what had happened to Draco’s cordiality. “For crying out loud, it’s just common human kindness,” Draco was saying.

“You ignored me, too, you know. Doesn’t make it right.” Harry paused. “It’s just confusing to my perspective, alright? I genuinely care about you. I’ve fancied you since I laid eyes on you; I won’t lie about that. But it’s _more_ now... for me... so it’s harder. And you snapping at everything really doesn’t make it easier. I don’t need to tell you you’re a half-decent bloke. You already know it.”

“I’m not snapping at everything; I’m getting pissed off about you preaching. I don’t need you to tell me I’m a decent bloke; you’re absolutely right: I know I am. But it would be nice if you’d not be so bloody surprised by it.” 

“Surprised?” Harry demanded. “I’m not surprised.”

“Then why the hell should it confuse you?” 

“Because people don’t go out of their way most of the time.”

“Then you’re hanging around the wRong people. Doing nice things for people you care about is just normal behaviour.”

“Yes, well, I thought we had this conversation before.”

“For pity’s sake, it’s not as if I went out and harvested the grapes myself and spent bloody months making the wine. It’s a seventh year transfiguration. And I’ve carried a hip flask since I was twenty.” 

Embarrassed for admitting his feelings ran so deeply, and confused, Harry said, “Thank you.”

“It was just a... a small, pleasant gesture meant to make you a little happier. I don’t see why you have to infer it into something else.” 

“Different relationships,” Harry said and turned to leave.

Instead of running, he walked, ignoring the faint shimmers of the ghostly Huntsmen as he tried to understand Draco’s motivations. People had always wanted something from Harry, a present or kind act a prelude to something else: for some, sex; for others, a favour, or Harry’s favour to help them get ahead. Ron and Helen had been decent – same as the rest of the Weasleys – but Harry’s view of most people sat on a scale of need. No one gave something for nothing, not without genuine regard for a person, and as he replayed their recent argument, Harry realised there might be more than he’d wanted to see in his frustration. Normal behaviour. Caring. The words stuck out in Harry’s mind like Hagrid amid schoolchildren. Harry sighed and turned around; he needed to apologise for his stupidity.

At the tent, Harry hesitated, then went inside, looking at Draco, how miserable he looked, and nuzzled Draco’s face. “I don’t think I’m around the wRong people now,” Harry said.

Draco stroked Harry’s ears, a hum of contentment rising in Harry’s chest. 

“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault,” Draco said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, watching Draco chew dispiritedly at an indistinguishable lump. Wanting Draco to laugh again – smile – Harry tickled Draco’s neck with his lips, since Draco had told Harry his whiskers tickled. 

With a half-smile, Draco said, “That probably wouldn’t even be appropriate if you were human.” 

Respecting Draco’s space, Harry moved away and settled. Things had got too complicated too fast, and Harry released a long sigh, hoping the remaining days wouldn’t be as stressful as the last few had been. In an attempt to engage Draco in conversation that didn’t involve apologies, Harry asked, “Whose eyesight did you have to fix?”

“Nobody’s.” 

“Then why did you know that spell?”

Draco shrugged. 

“Why won’t you tell me?” Harry asked; no reason came to mind for Draco to know the spell, and Harry couldn’t understand Draco’s lack of pride in the knowledge.

Red flooded Draco’s cheeks. “I learned that spell when I was eighteen years old in case I ever found myself in a position to use it on you. And now I’m going for a walk.” 

“What? Why? You can’t just walk away after saying something like that.”

“I really can.” 

_Petrificus Totalus_ wouldn’t have been as effective in stunning Harry. Unable to think, Harry watched Draco leave, his stomach churning uncomfortably with hope that deep down Draco returned his affections. After the hunt, the horse would no longer be a barrier; then Harry would know whether Draco’s actions meant he genuinely cared, or if once Harry was human, familiarity would die and there’d be nothing apart from the memory of being with Draco and nursing a wound like none Harry had ever felt before; one he hoped he’d never feel.

After the hunt, everything would be clear.

At least Harry thought so. Seconds ticked by. Harry made up his mind and went after Draco. He had to know why.

“Draco, wait!” Harry called out. Draco didn’t stop, but he didn’t speed up, either. When Harry managed to catch up, he asked, “Why would you learn that spell?”

“Can’t you take a hint?” Draco snapped.

“I get that you don’t want to talk about it, but I’d like to know why.”

“Because I don’t! Good god, I have to live with you in a tent the size of my bathroom; am I entitled to _no_ privacy?”

Harry grunted in irritation at Draco’s misunderstanding of his question. “Of course you are! I just want to understand. You've been waiting almost twenty years to use a spell on someone who always assumed you disliked them as much as they disliked you. I honestly don't understand.”

“Live with your lack of comprehension, then.”

Harry wrung his tail, and flattened his ears; then stomped the ground with each step, snorting. “It’s a simple question! Do you want me to assume why? I can do that!”

Draco glared at Harry. “Fine. Clearly no day in which you haven’t achieved my utter humiliation is complete. I learned that spell because I hoped – stupidly, and god only knows why since there was no bloody reason in the world that you’d deviate from your comfortable little rails – that you’d let me make peace with you and it’d be something I could do to show you that I wasn’t a complete waste of breath! Now will you please just piss off?” He stomped between two closely-pitched tents.

Processing Draco’s outburst, Harry walked around the tents and caught sight of Draco disappearing around a corner. 

“You’re not a complete waste of breath!” Harry called out as Draco disappeared. He took two steps and stopped, hesitating. Draco obviously needed time; an apology could wait until morning. Making up his mind, Harry went back to the tent.

Lying on the crude bed, Harry thought about the past. As a person, Draco Malfoy hadn’t been a concern of his for nearly twenty years. Harry hadn’t even had the decency to return Draco’s wand face-to-face, setting for having an owl take it, when, looking back, he knew that could have been dangerous. 

Harry deserved Draco’s anger; he knew it. Draco hadn’t been as bad as Harry had thought as an adolescent. Circumstances and stupidity had coloured his opinion, obscuring truth. Of course Draco’s mouth had been Harry’s sorest point, and his bullying of other students, but Draco had never been overly malicious, no worse than Harry had been. 

Two decades had brought Harry no closer to understanding why he’d been given leeway when others hadn’t. School rules had stated no first-years could play Quidditch, but Harry had been given the Seeker position for disobeying Madam Hooch, when Draco had been punished. _No wonder he’s so angry._ Briefly, Harry wondered if that had been Dumbledore’s way of making up for everything that had followed, his favouritism apart. Even when he, Ron, and Helen had broken rules and gone after the Philosopher’s Stone, Dumbledore had given them enough house points to win the house cup, when Slytherin had rightly earned it. Harry scoffed. 

Now, he wished he could ask Dumbledore the questions he avoided on the platform. Why? Age made Harry more cynical about the world and people; at least he could count on Draco’s honesty. For two more days.

Finally settled, Harry drifted off to sleep, waiting for Draco to return.

***

Draco rubbed his eyes against the mid-day sun. Harry had been trying to wake Draco for ages. Now that Draco seemed awake, Harry nuzzled him again, saying, “I’m sorry for last night.”

Draco frowned. “I’d rather just forget about that.” He sat up and hauled himself to his feet. 

“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.”

“Therefore you intend to labour the point and make matters worse. Will you please just drop it?” Draco asked, staggering to the bath. He began filling it and heating the water.

Harry wanted normality again. When Draco got in the bath, Harry rested his head on Draco’s shoulder, hoping. As always, Draco began petting Harry, slowly relaxing.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Harry said. He’d let Draco sleep too late as it was.

Yawning, Draco managed ‘spoilsport,’ urging a chuckle from Harry. Slowly the tension eased. It wasn’t perfect, but the tentative conversation was better than nothing. Harry managed to keep Draco awake by talking and indulging in Draco’s affection to the horse.

When he got out of the bath, Draco promised Harry he’d eaten himself sick the previous night, and Harry chose to trust him, refraining from nagging, but not without reminding Draco he was helpless if Draco passed out again, or broke a bone his limited knowledge didn’t cover.

They set out on the usual course, with Draco running Harry through his paces. Time flew by in breaths, and once they’d gone until both were tired and sweaty, they retired to the edge of the water. Harry plunged in, washing the sweat and grime from his coat after a roll in the grass. There were only so many places he could reach, and trees were ineffective rubbing posts for his shoulders. A horse’s body couldn’t contort like a human’s, and it drove Harry mental when he couldn’t do something himself.

Soaked to the bone, Harry went to lie in the grass and let what sunlight made it through the clouds dry his coat. When he’d finished swimming, Draco emerged and had Harry stand so he could be groomed properly.

Now Harry had an opportunity to apologise properly; Draco wouldn’t go anywhere. The worst that could happen was Draco would storm off without speaking and Harry would look as dishevelled as a horse as he did human.

“Last night, I tried to think about what things had been like for you, and I really can’t say I still know, but I think I might understand more now than I let myself back in school. I have no excuse for being a git then. And I’m sorry.”

No reply came, only the continuous strokes of the brush along Harry’s back.

“And I’m sorry I was so foul, too,” Draco eventually said.

“I don’t blame you for most of it. And I think you’ve more than made up for it. With this, and saving my life, when I’d given you no reason to.”

“I agreed to do it.”

“I meant during the war,” Harry said. “And now.”

“You were a horse; that wasn’t your fault. And during the war...” Draco hesitated, then continued. “Better a prat than a psychopath.” 

Harry shifted, afraid of the answer. “Am I still a prat? To you?”

“No. No, you’re not. Most of the time.” 

Relieved, Harry chuckled lightly. “I’m afraid even age can’t change some things.” Draco continued brushing Harry, keeping his peace. Having made it this far, Harry felt the closest to revealing his feelings would be saying, “I can see why you were worth it to her.” _Because you’re worth it to me, too_ , he thought.

“I don’t want to talk about Astoria right now.” 

Draco’s tone wasn’t sharp, but the subtle shift in his mood and bearing made Harry go quiet. Eventually he lowered his head and grazed on the long blades of grass.

Draco sighed. “I’m sorry. I just... It’s difficult, sometimes.” 

“S’kay,” Harry said with his mouth full.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk with your mouth full. You keep on pointing out that you’re not really a horse.” 

Harry swallowed. “I’m not. My manners aren’t perfect.” Draco snorted, apparently in agreement. “The need to respond overruled manners. How’s that?”

“Given the nature of your response, highly implausible,” Draco said, teasing.

That was the first step back into normal conversation. Harry’s problem with Draco was how little he noticed his touches, and how they affected Harry. Even as a horse, Harry responded to the sensation of a gentle hand roaming over his side, or patting his rump, or tickling his nose. When Draco offered a servant to clean Harry’s kitchen out when they returned home, Harry tried not to read anything into it; he thanked Draco and agreed a proper bath would be lovely, as well as proper food, since Draco had said he'd enjoy the same once the ordeal was over. The familiar ease seeped in again, giving reprieve, however brief. They were like friends, or at least a close to friends as the situation would allow, Harry’s feeling apart. When Draco had finished brushing Harry, he saddled Harry and they returned to the tent.

Getting a thorough rubdown was one of Harry’s favourite parts of returning from a nice run. Draco had incredible hands, always applying firm pressure to Harry’s muscles and scratching itches Harry couldn’t reach.

“You really are a wonderful horse,” Draco said. “A carthorse with a thoroughbred heart.” 

Amused, Harry laughed, saying, “Thanks. You get all of me when I care. Takes a lot to get that these days.” Draco cocked his head inquiringly, so Harry elaborated. “I don’t trust blindly any more.”

Draco laughed, then. “Understandable. Horses are like people, you know. They have to be earned.” 

“Mm. Yes. I’m glad.”

“That horses are like people?” Draco asked, already beginning to plait Harry’s mane. Having explained his irritation hadn’t been due to the plaits, Harry relaxed and let Draco do whatever was needed to avoid the hair interfering with the hunt.

“You make it sound like horse and rider earn each other. I’m glad for that.”

“They do. Well, more the rider earns the horse’s trust and decides whether the horse is worth keeping, but the principle applies broadly. There isn’t a horse in my stable that wouldn’t gallop headlong off the edge of a cliff if I asked it of them.” 

“Including me,” Harry said.

“Good. That means we stand a very strong chance tomorrow. I can see a great deal better than you, you see.” 

“Most people could.” Harry laughed.

“I can see better than any horse. Humans can. A horse’s vision really isn’t brilliant.”

“No. I can confirm that.”

“But you can run and jump, and trust in me not to put you at anything you can’t take, or into a dead end. And I can trust in you to take anything I put you at, and run until I ask you to stop,” Draco said, still plaiting Harry’s mane.

“Yes. You’re a better partner than Ron has been sometimes.”

“Only in this endeavour. I’d be a dead loss as a copper. I am good on a horse, though.” 

“I’m not much of a judge of these things, but I’m confident I can agree with you on that,” Harry said.

Unable to see, Harry was surprised when Draco said, “There; done.”

The day wound down, and Draco eventually mentioned having a nap, so Harry offered to lie with him, even though is sleeping habits as a horse were entirely different. Harry knew it would only make letting go harder, but Draco didn’t sleep well without him there, and it made Harry feel good to do something useful.

Eventually Harry drifted off to sleep, with Draco still wrapped around him. 

When Harry woke, his head was in Draco’s lap and gentle strokes moved across his face. Surprised by the position, Harry asked, “Wh’re you doing?”

“You were dreaming,” Draco said.

Harry hummed, feeling Draco stroke his ears. “Was a nice dream.” Being so close to Draco was too tempting. Harry turned his head and began sniffing. A memory stored for later. Even in stale robes and the scent of straw clinging to him, Draco smelled delightful.

“It’s still me, yes.”

“I know,” Harry said, closing his eyes briefly as Draco petted his nose. The urge to kiss Draco Rachel up, but Harry couldn’t. He settled for resting his head in Draco’s lap again, basking in the awkward intimacy of the situation. 

“Do you want to get up?” Draco asked.

“No. I’m quite comfortable.”

Harry moaned when Draco began stroking behind his ears. He wondered what it would take to convince Draco to do that to him as a human.

Abruptly, Draco stopped. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Surprised, Harry looked up, cocking his head. “Of course I am.”

“It’s just that that was a very unusual noise.” 

Unable to help himself, Harry laughed. “Pleasure as a horse really doesn’t suit me, does it?”

“The last time I heard a horse make that noise, he had colic and it was a damned near thing whether it was treatable or not.” 

“Oh. I’m not poorly.”

“I know. It was just a surprise.” 

“You have light hands, as you said.”

Laughing, Draco said, “None of my horses at home would do this.” 

“No? They should. It’s lovely. Unless that’s more of the human side.”

“Most horses don’t really lie down very much.” 

“I’m human, though. Just stuck in a horse’s body.” Draco hummed, but Harry wasn’t sure it was in agreement or not. “Well, don’t stop scratching.” Draco obliged with a laugh that warmed Harry. Draco had a pleasant laugh. “I am like this as a human.”

“You like being tickled behind the ears?”

“If you want to call it that.” Draco wore a puzzled expression, so Harry clarified, “No, I mean mostly calm. Affectionate. When I trust someone this much.”

“That’s nice,” Draco said.

Amused by Draco’s sublime obliviousness, Harry contented himself with Draco’s attention. It felt nice to be the centre of Draco’s focus, feeling both of them relax with the steady movements. They remained that way for a long time. Eventually Draco began to move, leaning forward and kissing Harry’s nose lightly, then flushed and apologised quickly. 

“Nothing to apologise for,” Harry reassured him.

“It’s habit, that’s all. When Rapture was foaling and I sat up with her...” 

“It’s alright. I know it’s not something else.”

Blinking in confusion, Draco yawned and moved behind Harry.

“Get some rest. I’ll be here,” Harry promised.

Once Draco was settled, he yawned again, and said, “I’ll miss this.”

“Me, too.” More than he could say, Harry would miss this.

“N’ver liked sleeping ’lone.” 

“You don’t have to,” Harry said in a veiled offer, but only received a hum in response. “Sleep well, Draco.”

Draco was asleep not long after, and Harry forced all thoughts of the future from his mind, needing a moment of emptiness. A dose of reality. Draco was straight and would miss the horse, not Harry. He’d be able to fill that hole well enough; Draco had stables and horses of his own. Swallowing his own hurt, Harry remained beside Draco until hunger drove him to his corner, where he watched Draco sleep, his hand still searching for Harry.

***

Running, running, running – Harry changed directions, attuned to Draco’s nuances. In the distance, Harry heard the dogs ahead of them. Twigs snapped, Harry’s hoof-beats raining heavily through muddy ground. Patches of dense fog obscured sight, looked like the Huntsmen rising from the ground to block their path. But they went on, dashing through the night. Desperation fuelled every movement and reaction. Thoughts were limited – when they caught the stag, they’d be free: Draco would return to his son, Harry would return to his children, and whatever lay between them would either be crumpled and put away, or fostered.

Draco was calm. His grip on Harry was soft, but every twitch was Harry’s; he knew exactly what to do, where to run. Deep breaths, his hooves pounding, Harry heard Draco call out an order to the dogs.

The trees looked like melted globs of giants, the earlier rain having disfigured them in Harry’s vision as they raced by. Quick snapping in the thicket made the instinct to stop flare, but Harry trusted Draco, knew he needed to keep going. No failure. Then a spot that smelled like nothing, a void in the damp grass and sharp moss and mud, came, with the sound of rushing water. The path was full of obstructions. Harry jumped, feeling Draco’s weight lift subtly during a moment of wingless flight; mud splattered around his legs and hooves, and Harry pushed off again; the brutal pace continued. 

They moved as one, breaking into a clearing. In the distance, one set of the dogs chased an unseen trail, the rest running close to Harry. Together, Harry and Draco ran across the field, the grass licking Harry’s legs and ankles, around trees, blanketed by moonlight and stars. Harry had surrendered, a tool for Draco to guide them. Faster, faster, Harry went. Moonlight flickered like a candle between leaves and branches as Draco led, Harry trusting him; Draco trusting Harry. 

Eternity passed in seconds. 

As one, they jumped fallen trees. The Lord of the Chase hadn’t Harry’s advantage: the drive to see his children – hear Lily’s laughter, see Al riding his broom, or watching James read – kept him pushing. Determination flowed through Harry. To know if what they both wanted at the end was the same. Even if it wasn’t, Harry would see them through; he had to. 

The wind orchestrated a chilling song through the trees: the hounds in the darkness, Draco’s breath, and Harry’s. Closer, Harry could feel it, as sure as Draco’s soft twitch of the reins, driving Harry onward. They found the stag’s trail, winding through brush and thick growth. 

Dogs cornered it – their dogs; the smell of blood pervaded Harry’s nostrils. He stopped at Draco’s cue.

Hope was all he had. And trust.

***

Weight pressed on Harry’s side, the smell of hay and manure coming with each inhale. He groaned and rolled over, snuggling closer to the warm presence against him. Vaguely aware of running his fingers across rough fabric, Harry started; blinked. His eyes shot open, sunlight glaring, burning, and Draco’s face, serene yet bedraggled, rested; deep, even breaths issued from him, and Harry turned, blinking, feeling the crunch of straw under his palm.

They’d done it. Human – Harry was human again. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling his own face, his hair, his ears; then neck, shoulders, torso, his bits. Rising, Harry stopped as Draco made a noise and rolled over, his hair littered with straw.

“Yes!” Harry shouted, raising his arms above his head. He turned and whooped, pale stalks flying into the air and hitting the ground. 

Draco mumbled a protesting inquiry. 

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Go back to sleep.” A wide grin on his face, he looked at Draco, felt like kissing Draco, wrapping Draco in a hug – something to show his gratitude.

Movement caught Harry’s attention: Draco’s arm was outstretched as though he sought Harry. With a smile, Harry lay down, feeling Draco’s arm slither around him like Devil’s Snare. Forced flat to Draco’s chest by the embrace, Harry sighed contentedly. 

Realisation dawned, and Harry tensed. If Draco woke, wrapped around a human Harry, Harry wasn’t sure the reaction would be in his favour.

“Draco. Wake up.” Harry put his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“Nuh,” Draco managed.

“Draco, wake up. Please.” Harry tried shaking Draco.

Indistinct grumbles followed, and Harry sighed. 

“Wha’?” Draco asked.

“You do know I’m not the horse any more, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” It sounded like a confirmation, but Harry didn’t want to chance it.

“So you’re consciously wrapping your arm around me?”

“Mmm?”

“Open your damn’ eyes,” Harry said in amusement, Draco’s face only wrinkling in response. “Where are we?”

Draco yawned hugely. “B’kshire. Go t’slee’.” 

“No... no. I want to take you home.”

“Mmm. La’r,” Draco mumbled, burying his face between Harry’s shoulder and the straw.

“You’ve straw in your hair.”

“Shu’ up,” 

“You have. Who dressed me?” Harry asked, noticing he was in the same robe – only cleaner – he’d worn the day he’d blown the horn.

A grumble resembling ‘putting that bloody bit back’ followed.

“I’m not a horse! I think a bit kink is a bit much for you.”

Draco mumbled and tightened his arm a fraction.

“Where’s your wand? It used to be friendly to me. I can take you home. Don’t you want to sleep in your bed?”

A snore came in response, and Harry wondered how Draco could sleep so soundly; why he wasn’t as excited as Harry for everything to be over. Sleeping was impossible, so Harry lay, watching Draco, wondering how long before reality would set in and the mistake be realised. Gently, Harry stroked Draco’s cheek and neck, the self-indulgent touch fleeting before he settled. Draco stirred a few times, mumbling, always falling asleep again. After a time, Harry noticed all reactions were normal, including arousal; being flat against Draco, trying not to bury his face in Draco’s neck and inhale, lick, or kiss was trying. He wanted to, badly. His fingers itched to touch Draco again, but he had more sense and restrained himself.

Eventually bodily needs overcame Harry’s desire for Draco’s comfort, and he eased away to exit the barn and relieve his bladder. He moaned softly as he stood normally, able to urinate without being at an awkward angle. Touching himself again, despite the extra effort needed to piss around an erection, he managed, another soft moan flowing from his lips. Temptation to wank Rachel, visions of Draco naked dancing in his thoughts. 

Harry shook himself; he knew better. Indulging that fantasy would only lead to more trouble. Being in love with Draco was enough.

After righting his robe, Harry walked slowly around the barn, to let the desire drift away with the breeze. It didn’t. He stopped at the door and turned, heading away from Draco. He stopped again, stutter-stepped as he thought to return. The choice shouldn’t have been so difficult. Not when Draco lay asleep, and Harry hadn’t touched himself in months, or felt anyone else touch him, apart from Draco. But he had been touching the horse, not Harry, really – and definitely not sexually – and even if Harry remembered it, it hadn’t been the same. A tangled sense of morality and maintaining the innocence in Harry’s mind became harder and harder. He kicked the side of the barn, and leaned against the wood, as his hand slid down his chest. Draco wouldn’t know… wouldn’t begrudge Harry it.

Harry exhaled, moaning softly as he felt his palm against his cock. Hard and aching, a thrill moved down his spine. To have hands again, to feel himself, squeeze himself, made him shudder. Relief was too far away and too soon. Harry closed his eyes. The vivid image of Draco naked in the bath sprang to mind as he fumbled to undo the buttons. Sod waiting. It was a ridiculous thought, Harry convinced himself, nearly ripping the fabric to get his hand in contact with skin and his balls, his cock. 

It’d been too long since Harry had felt the delicious surge of pressure inside him with the ability to relieve it. The smell of Draco’s skin, as he lay in the barn, swelled in Harry’s senses. He moaned as he finally shoved the material aside and gripped his cock. The barn ate into his shoulders, but he ignored it, stroking rapidly. It wouldn’t take much. In Harry’s mind, Draco was on his knees, making soft noises, waiting for Harry’s semen, his mouth open and ready. Just the thought of seeing his own come on Draco’s face, on Draco’s tongue, was enough to pull Harry’s other hand lower to fondle his balls. He gasped, the sensation dragging him higher. 

Tension jerked his body. Harry’s head spun, pushing his hips hard into his tight palm, imagining Draco’s mouth. Breathing became heavy panting, and he felt it. Like the snap of a string cut. Hot come flooded over his hand. Harry groaned loudly, mentally admiring the look of white on Draco’s out-stretched tongue, Draco’s lips and cheeks. His body shook as he continued to stroke his cock, wet with stickiness and alive with sensation. He shuddered, trying to catch his breath.

Harry released his cock slowly, shaking the mess from his hand and wiping the excess against the barn. Buttoning his robe, Harry stood and walked back to the door to re-join Draco.

He exhaled, and stepped inside. A look of sleepy disapproval rested on Draco’s face, so Harry joined him in the straw again, leaning against the wall. Wondering if Draco knew what he had done.

Draco reached out. “C’m back’re.”

“You’re sure?” Harry asked, receiving a cranky look in response. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, crawling beside Draco again. He lay on his back, and Draco’s arm wrapped around him. Wide awake and uncertain from Draco’s behaviour, Harry picked pale, out-of-place stalks from Draco’s hair. A vague protest came, so Harry stopped, hearing a mumble about oats.

Harry chuckled. “I’d prefer meat. I’ve had enough oats to last me a lifetime. Mm. Streaky bacon and brown sauce.”

Draco yawned, producing his wand. Weaving a complicated charm that he seemed familiar with, Draco sagged against Harry again. 

With a _pop_ , a servant arrived, squeaking distressfully.

“Home. Both. Bedroom. Get him some breakfast. Whatever he wants. Quietly. Now,” Draco ordered, his eyes still closed.

Harry had a moment to register surprise before he felt the pull of Apparition behind his navel and instead of lying in straw, he was on a bed, soft and comfortable, with a faint scent of perfume around him. What he assumed was Astoria’s. The servant regarded Harry anxiously, so Harry ordered his breakfast, and sat up; Draco didn’t let him go far. He buried his face in Harry’s hip and slung his arm across Harry’s lap. 

The tension grew as Harry waited. He sighed, wishing Draco understood. Caring and loving someone were different, similar enough, but Harry had never lain with someone like this without being intimate with them, and the odd position made him wish he had the heart to make Draco move. He hadn’t complained about it while he’d been a horse, but now the urge grew.

The elf returned with Harry’s sandwich, and he bit into it as though he’d never tasted food before, his hunger overriding manners. The sandwich didn’t last long, and Harry drank the juice provided, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as the elf reappeared to get his dishes. 

“Can you contact Ron Weasley for me? I’d like my wand.”

The elf squeaked, disappearing, and Draco yelled, “Not in here!” as though Ron’s name had been a bucket of cold water.

“What? I just want my wand,” Harry said.

“What?” Draco asked, blinking.

“I sent your elf to contact Ron for my wand.”

Scrubbing his face, Draco said, “I thought someone said he was here.” 

Harry chuckled. “No.”

“Oh, good. God, I stink. I’m going to have a bath.” 

“Have you got more than one shower?”

“I haven’t got a shower.” 

“Oh. Well, more than one bath?” Harry asked as Draco hauled himself off the bed and trundled toward a door.

“Not in the en-suite, no.” Draco began shedding his robe.

Harry politely tried not to look, but couldn’t help glancing up. “Alright. I’ll wait for you to finish.” He crossed his ankles.

“It’s a big bath, Harry,” Draco said, stepping through the door.

Courage had always been natural to Harry, only now he felt like it had felt with being the horse. He stood, though, and went to look how large the bathtub was. Draco was already in, bubbles surrounding him, with his eyes closed and head leaning against the edge.

Harry considered, then undressed, sinking into the water with a groan. “I feel like I’ve never had a bath before.”

Draco laughed. “You’re not the only one,” he said, stretching luxuriantly. His foot connected with Harry’s knee, which Harry withdrew. 

It was impossible not to look at Draco. When Draco yawned, Harry watched the tightening of muscles beneath pale flesh, and lips rounding, then soft exhalation, transfixed. Even with Draco’s invitation, he felt he shouldn’t have accepted. Not wishing to seem ungracious, Harry said, “Thanks. For everything.”

“Entirely my pleasure, I assure you,” Draco said politely.

Harry smiled, then ducked under the water. The grime melted away, and it felt brilliant to have hot water surrounding him, pulling the dirt from his hair. Opening his eyes on reflex, Harry looked around and caught sight of Draco’s bits, jerked above the water again, sputtering. Denying he wanted to look longer was useless; it was probably written across his expression. He wished he hadn’t accepted the invitation; the last thing he wanted was Draco to assume the worst. Not knowing what to do wasn’t something Harry was used to, even after three months of being powerless and at Draco’s mercy. 

Harry grumbled.

“You really were a wonderful horse,” Draco said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “I don’t know what sort of man you are.” A meditative silence followed. “I wouldn’t mind finding out, I think.”

Harry flushed. “Smaller, clearly. I’m not different than the horse. Just… well, not a horse.”

“Smell better, for one thing.” 

Nervous, Harry laughed. “Hope so.”

“I think I might miss the horse.” 

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to determine if that was a good or bad thing.

“I don’t know. I was... very fond... of the horse.” 

“That would make one of us.”

“As a person, clearly. My perversions have never run to bestiality.” 

Laughing again, Harry said, “I told you, I’m no different. Just... smaller. In all aspects, which I am wholly not concerned about.”

Harry flushed as Draco regarded him. 

“I loved my wife.” 

“Yes.”

“I’ve never... thought of anybody else that way. I don’t know. It’s... it’s different. I think, perhaps, I could. I don’t know.” 

“You think perhaps you could already, or eventually?” Harry asked, needing to be certain. Where Draco’s sudden need to express himself came from, Harry had no idea; but he wanted to hope it was fuelled by desire. A tremor wracked Harry’s curled hands, his hearing becoming like the end of a long tunnel: far away from Draco. Whatever Draco’s reply, it would be lost in the echoing translation, funnelling toward Harry. He was terrified of Draco’s answer, and confident in his. It wasn’t a position Harry was used to being in.

“I don’t know. Both, maybe.”

Harry’s heartbeat sputtered and sank; then bounced into his throat. He swallowed, smiling nervously. “That’s good.” He paused. “Because I do.” Love you, Harry thought; but like a child, the meaning got lost in the innocence of feeling. With his mind blank, and body rushing with anticipation, arousal, and happiness, Harry let himself feel. Love was an abstract word to describe the minute weakening of his knees, the softening of a hard look as Draco came into focus, the smile that lit his face when Draco evinced happiness, pleasure, or affection. Nothing else mattered. 

For Harry, love had always been the symbol of his life, the reason he’d lived and not his parents; but he’d never experienced love like that until the birth of his children, and never for a partner. Until now.

Deeper colour blossomed on Draco’s cheeks. “Good. That’s… that’s good.” He paused, then continued, “I’ve never... there was only her. Only ever her.” 

Shoving his hand through his hair, Harry said, “I don’t mind.” Draco’s lack of experience didn’t bother him; Harry wanted to be able to prove he was sincere in his feelings.

Mild irritation overcame the relaxed expression. “It’s not about whether you mind or not. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“I don’t mind that you still love her,” Harry tried to clarify; he suspected Draco would never love another person as much as he loved Astoria. They had been together at least fifteen years and had a son; replacing that would be impossible. But Harry didn’t want to replace it, or change it. Draco’s remaining love for Astoria characterised him, showed the kind of man Draco had become – so much better than Harry. At least he’d taken and given his all to someone, which was more than Harry could claim. Having experience had not been a problem for Harry for many years, but he had no experience with a straight man. They were on even ground in this. That Draco seemed to feel Harry was trying to make him feel ashamed of his devotion stung slightly; Harry’s intention had been reassurance, but it had come across as mocking. 

Draco closed his eyes, his seeking patience clear. “I was talking about sex.” 

“I realised that, too.”

“The horse was easier to talk to,” Draco muttered with his eyes still closed.

Moving closer, Harry hoped his hand on Draco’s shoulder was alright – the urge to nuzzle Draco as Harry had before Rachel up, but Harry tempered it, assuming an act of intimacy in the bath wouldn’t be acceptable. The quick tense, then relax from Draco almost made him withdraw his hand, but Harry remained where he was.

“If... if we... do this. Whatever it is. I refuse to be a fling.” 

Honesty Harry respected, and he couldn’t deny his track record with relationships was horrid. What he felt for Draco was more than about sex. He wanted that, too, but they were in two different places.

“I’d be stupid to think of you that way,” Harry said. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Nodding, Draco opened his eyes, his face still tinted pink, and looked at Harry, searching. It was as though Draco had never seen Harry before, and Harry, remaining quiet, cocked his head to the side, meeting Draco’s assessing gaze.

“I think,” Draco said, hesitating. “I think I would like to kiss you.” 

“Alright.”

Draco sat up from the side of the bath and leaned forward carefully. Harry let Draco have the control, knowing he’d need it.

Nervously Draco exhaled. “This would be a lot... less nerve-racking if you’d do something.”

Harry moved his hand from Draco’s shoulder, up Draco’s neck, and stroked the line of Draco’s jaw gently with his thumb. The slight shiver made Harry’s stomach twist in anticipation. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, moaning softly as Draco’s lips pressed against his. Then it was over.

Still stroking Draco’s jaw, Harry backed away. “Is this alright?” he asked.

Draco nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Grateful, Harry smiled. With a maelstrom of emotions – desire, love, affection – Harry wasn’t ready to be rejected, not when looking at Draco, being with Draco, Harry knew how much he had been missing. 

“You ought to call at the Ministry,” Draco said.

“Mm. I should. And Occupational Healers, and see if I still have a job. See the kids.” It was reluctant agreement, though; Harry wanted to stay with Draco now that he could touch him. He wasn’t ready to give up being with Draco every night. Draco needed time to come to terms with what his admission about his feelings meant, though; Harry would give Draco time. Time was never-ending, it seemed. For now, Harry could wait: three heartbeats, or forever, for as long as Draco wanted him.

“I’m sure you will. It was an accident that could have happened to anyone.” 

Harry snorted, still stroking Draco’s jaw. “It’ll be odd not having you around.”

“I’ll be around,” Draco promised.

Harry couldn’t help smiling. While he’d meant every night, Harry was aware their previous sleeping arrangements wouldn’t work now. Draco had just admitted he might love Harry, that he thought he could love Harry, something Harry suspected surprised Draco equally as much, and asking for too much too soon could push Draco away. Slow steps. In time, the pieces would fit together, the barrier of being a horse gone, even if Draco’s love for Astoria remained. That depth of feeling, while Harry might never get it, was what had made him fall in love with Draco. Draco’s strength, compassion, honesty were many facets Harry wanted to be able to wipe away the accumulation of hurt from and see Draco shine again. To Harry, Draco was priceless, and well-worth any sacrifice. 

The look on Draco’s face drew Harry’s attention, the urge to nuzzle not far behind. Harry missed the ease of the gesture: it had been a way to show he cared without discomforting Draco.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked.

Colour rose on Draco’s cheeks. “It seems strange not to be caring for you.” 

“Just differently, now. I hope.”

Draco smiled lopsidedly. “You really were a beautiful horse.”

Against his better judgment, Harry squeezed Draco’s shoulder, and swallowed. Reacting to Draco wasn’t a problem, but making Draco uncomfortable was. “You’re just beautiful,” Harry said sincerely.

“I’m not really a connoisseur of male beauty.” Draco’s colour deepened.

Harry cleared his throat. “I should… go. To work.”

Nodding, Draco said, “You’d better borrow clean robes.” 

“Please,” Harry said and began washing. It was cathartic to sit beside Draco as himself, and still know Draco wanted him around. Previous worry began to peel away with each swipe of the flannel across Harry’s skin, and while he knew things would remain complicated for some time, Draco’s inexperience the biggest factor, and Harry’s history, he was certain it’d be worth it. He’d never wanted to invest in another person so much, even if it had taken fifteen years to find – to see right in fRont of him.

“I could do your back,” Draco offered.

“You’re sure?” Harry asked, watching Draco nod. He turned, feeling Draco’s hands against _him_ for the first time, not the horse. It felt even better as a human, the attention enough to draw a groan from Harry as his head dropped back and felt as though he merged with the water.

Draco laughed softly. “Sex noises.”

“Not the same.”

“Can’t be far off,” Draco said, keeping his hands above Harry’s waist.

“Maybe,” Harry said, turning to look at Draco when the pressure became gentle strokes. Colour flooded Draco’s cheeks again. “Are you always this shy?”

 

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t... done this with many people, if you remember.” 

Harry nodded, feeling Draco’s hands move to his shoulders. “I do want to be with you. I haven’t loved anyone for a long time, so this is... new. Never been in love. I won’t push you. I can wait as long as you need.”

Draco bit his lip. “I can’t promise anything.”

“I know,” Harry said. He looked at Draco. “If you come to a point where you know you never will... just tell me. Don’t leave me hanging. Alright?”

Unexpectedly, Draco’s hands moved down Harry’s back and wrapped round his ribs, making Harry shiver. “I can promise you that.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

Long moments passed where they didn’t speak, and Draco’s hands didn’t move. Suspended in silence, Harry offered to wash Draco’s back in return. Learning to be with Draco as a man would take some work, but he felt equal to it. Wanted to prove he was worth Draco’s hard-earned affection.

Harry inched closer, nuzzling behind Draco’s ear as he had many times before, only now he wasn’t the horse; he was himself. Harry started, saying, “Er, sorry. Bit of a habit by now. Sorry.” He backed away.

“It’s okay. I don’t... that’s alright.” 

Gently, Harry touched the back of Draco’s neck. “I should go. Can I see you later?” he asked hopefully.

Draco nodded. “If I’m not here, I’ll be at the College building.” 

“Is that here?” Harry asked.

“No, in London. The College of Historians; it’s not far from the Ministry’s park site. It’s where I work.” 

“Alright. Ah, I just didn’t know the name of it; I know what you’re talking about. Er, and we’re at your parents’ house, right?”

“No, this isn’t the Manor, this is my house. Derbyshire. Edensor Chase.” 

“Alright. I’ll see you later, then. Dinner?” Harry asked, getting out of the tub. To avoid embarrassing Draco, he covered his erection quickly with a towel. No reply came, and Harry turned, seeing the hesitation in Draco’s face. “I don’t mean… out. I can cook for us.”

Draco glanced at Harry, blushing, and looked away again. “That would be nice.”

Harry nodded and returned to the bedroom as Draco emerged from the bath. He dressed quickly, not wanting to leave, but knowing he had to. It was too much to hope he’d be able to stay with Draco, so he didn’t mention it. He was taking a step he was afraid of, one where the promise of later meant more than the promise of now. It was new, terrifying for Harry. But he shoved that aside, no matter how much he felt like they were speaking separate languages; he wanted this with Draco, and would prove it.

“Has your wand been brought, or would you like me to Apparate you?” 

Harry looked around and saw his wand on the bedside table. “My wand’s here.”

Draco nodded.

“See you at eight, then?” Harry asked, smiling hopefully.

“Yes,” Draco replied, smiling.

“See you then.” Harry knew an urge to kiss Draco again, but he could wait. He’d savour it more later. They were at the beginning.

With one last look at Draco, still smiling, Harry left the room and paused at the front door before heading home.


End file.
